Skip to main content

Full text of "Palatine anthology : a collection of ancient poems and ballads, relating to Lancashire and Cheshire"

See other formats


x^ 


-  ■  J. 

T  :■■■'■''  *■■  '■■■■' 

& 

!;;'  ■■':'■':- 

;'  ■  /  ■   \     !0!' 

'[f'l 

^M^' 

WlS' 

1  ■[--[•  I  ■"::: 


V  ■•-^\,;.;.  .  •^•■^''■■ ';'';•;.':,;/-;.-/.-■;■,-/.■  ^./V.■.■^•.v..■.  ,  \^/^-'"-.t .  .:;-■'/-/•.■?■>■>  A. •■ 'V/-,,  >.  :V',■■■ 


•i."--.A- 


^<;-; 

;'f;.V:'J:;v 

li 

,71 


:r.-t.' 


'v-fe/,:,.,/,:/ 


V\   i:     { 


I' ,'  '' 


/■■'" 


'-/,/^^^^ 


:':^>- 1 


?/■  ' 


f  ; 


VV 


L'ilf: 


:Vm//ia4  '^^^/)a^£-  c^S-^. 


c<^^ 


I 


W^K 


t 


-'i^-O 


Ciie 


iPalattne   ^ntiiolog$« 


alatme  ^nlftolagp; 


a  CoUectiott  of 


9incicnt  poemg  antr  Ballatufii, 


Selatt'ng  to 


ilantasjire  antr  CJesJto^ 


3aines!  (J^rtftarti  l^aflttDell,  esq,  j^jR*^,, 

^lonoratj  :^Umb«  of  tif)e  JJlojal  ffrt;Si)  9tairmp,  antt  of  tl)e  Mopal  ^ocictw  of  aiUiatuie; 
dTelloh)  of  t^t  Sionttj)  of  ^nttq[uarie;$,  &(. 


24)nliJ)n: 


iFor  i^titiate  Citcttlatton  onl£i« 


/^ 


A   LIST 

OF 

Ml  Uniform  teilk  (he  Roxhurghe  Club  Series. 


I. 

MORTE  ARTHURE :  the  Alliteeative  Romance  of  the  death  of  King 
Arthur;  now  first  printed  from  a  Manuscript  in  Lincoln  Cathedral. 
Seventy-five  copies  printed.    Thick  paper,  £8  ;  thin  paper,  £5. 

e. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  LOVE :  A  Poem,  by  Robert  Grosseteste,  Bishop  of  Lincoln. 
Now  first  printed  from  inedited  MSS.  of  the  fourteenth  century.  One 
hundred  copies  printed.  Thick  paper  (only  ten  printed),  £1  10«. ;  thin 
paper,  Ihs. 


CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  EARLY  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  derived  chiefly  from 
Rare  Books  and  Ancient  Inedited  Manuscripts  from  the  Fifteenth  to  the 
Seventeenth  Century.  Seventy-five  copies  printed.  Thick  paper,  £3  3s.; 
thin  paper,  £2  2s. 

A  NEW  BOKE  ABOUT  SHAKESPEARE  AND  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
Illustrated  with  Woodcuts  and  Facsimiles.  Seventy-five  copies  printed. 
Thick  paper,  £1   5«. ;   thin  paper,  15«. 

a 


4664G9 


V. 

THE  PALATINE  ANTHOLOGY:  A  Collection  of  Ancient  Poems  and 
Ballads  relating  to  Cheshike  and  Lancashire  ;  to  which  is  added 
THE  PALATINE  GARLAND.  One  hundred  and  ten  copies  printed. 
Thick  paper  (only  ten  copies),  365  5». ;   thin  paper,  £2   12».  6rf. 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH 
CENTURIES ;  Illustrated  by  Reprints  of  very  rare  Tracts.  Seventy-five 
copies  printed.    Thick  paper,  £3  3s. ;  thin  paper,  £2  2s.    [In  the  press. 


Any  communications  relating  to  the  above  Works  are  requested  to  be  forwarded  to 
the  Editor,  at  his  residence,  Avenue  Lodge,  Brixton  Hill,  Surrey. 


THE  PALATINE  ANTHOLOGY. 


We  hereby  certify,  that  the  impression  of  the  '  Palatine  Anthology' 
and  the  ' Palatine  Garland'  has  been  strictly  limited  to  One  Hundred 
and  Ten  copies.  Ten  of  that  number  being  on  thick  paper. 


^y!A  ,^^^^^i^t^^. 


DISTRIBUTION    OF    COPIES. 


CJbult  tSaper. 


1.  His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  and  Queensbury,  K.G. 

2.  Arthur  H.  Hey  wood,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

S.  John  C.  Tennant,  Esq.,  Bispham  Hmise,  Roby,  Lancashire. 

4.  James  Crossley,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

5.  The  Rev.  Thomas  Corser,  M.A.,  Stand. 

6.  The  Rev.  Thomas  Halliwell,  M.A.,  Incumbent  of  Christ  Church, 


7.     The  Editor. 
8. 
9. 
10. 


VIU 


€f)in  diaper* 


NUMBEEpD    AS    IN    THE    OKDEB,    OP    SUBSCRIPTION. 


1.  William  Morris,  Esq.,  Chester. 

2.  C.  R.  Jacson,  Esq.,  Barton  Lodge,  'Preston. 

3.  George  Ormerod,  Esq.,  Sedhury  Park,  Chepstow. 

4.  James  Haywood,  Esq.,  M.P. 

5.  Thomas  Jones,  Esq.,  Librarian  of  the  Chatham  College. 

6.  P.  M.  James,  Esq.,  Summer  Ville,  Manchester. 

7.  James  Pilkington,  Esq.,  M.P. 

8.  William  Atkinson,  Esq.,  Ashton  Hayes,  Chester. 

9.  John  Ross  Coulthart,  Esq.,  Croft  House,  Ashton-under-Lyne,  Banker. 

10.  John  Mawdsley,  Esq.,  Seacombe. 

11.  The  Venerable  Archdeacon  Brookes,  President  of  the  Liverpool 

Athenaeum. 

12.  H.  Scholfield,  Esq.,  M.D.,  5ir>?;e»^ea(?. 

13.  W.  H.  Brown,  Esq.,  Chester. 

14.  F.  R.  Atkinson,  Esq.,  Oak  House,  Manchester. 

15.  Samuel  E.  Cottam,  Esq.,    F.R.A.S.,  Belmont,  Higher  Broughton, 

Manchester. 

16.  The  Rev.  R.  Parkinson,  B.D.  F.S.A.,  Canon  of  Manchester. 

17.  Sir  Thomas  Hesketh,  Bart.,  .S2<^o?-(;?  iTa^^. 

18.  The  Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of  EUesmere. 

19.  Manchester  Exchange  Library. 

20.  Portico  Library,  Manchester. 

21.  B.  W,  Booth,  Esq., /S^ww^ow. 

22.  Thomas  Haywood,  Esq.,  Hope  End,  Ledbury. 

23.  James  Hatton,  Esq.,  Richmond  House. 

24.  John  Just,  Esq.,  Grammar  School,  Bury. 

25.  The  Right  Hon.  Lord  Londasborough. 

26.  The  Lord  Lindsay,  M.P. 

27.  Miss  Richardson  Currer,  Eshton  Hall,  Gargrave,  Yorkshire. 
George  Barlow,  Esq.,  Wilm^low. 

29.  Peter  Barrow,  Esq.,  Manchester. 


so.  Elias  Chadwick,  Esq.,  Pudleston  Court. 

31.  William  Lowndes,  Esq.,  ^remoM^. 

32.  John  Harland,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

33.  Thomas  B.  Sharp,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

34.  William  E.  Lycett,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

35.  Joseph  Jones,  Esq.,  Hathershaw. 

36.  James  Dearden,  Esq.  F.S.A.,  Rochdale. 

37.  Joseph   Mayer,  Esq.,   Hon.  Curator  of  the   Historic    Society  of 

Lancashire  and  Cheshire. 

38.  Titus  Hibbert  Ware,  Esq.,  Barrister,  F.S.A.  Scot. 

39.  The  Rev.  William  Whitelegg,  M.A.,  Incumbent  of  St.  George's, 

Manchester. 

40.  The  Rev.  A.  Hume,  LL.D.  F.S.A. 

41.  George  Simms,  Esq. 

42.  George  Taylor,  Esq.,  Stalyhridge. 

43.  William  Fleming,  Esq.  M.D.,  Broughton  View. 

44.  Miss  Marsden,  Manchester. 

43.  The  Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of  Burlington. 

46.  Mrs.  Trafford  Leigh,  Lringhouses,  York. 

47.  The  Liverpool  Library. 

48.  James  Bourne,  Esq.,  Ileathfield  Home,  Wavertree. 

49.  John  Owen,  Esq.,  Manchester. 

50.  Beriah  Botfield,  Esq.,  Norton  Hall. 

51.  John  Sweetlove,  Esq.,  Everton. 

52.  Peter  Legh,  Esq.,  Norhury  Booths  Hall,  Knutrford. 

53.  Henry  Brock-HoUinshead,  Esq.,  BlacJcburne. 

54.  Alfred  North,  Esq.,  Liverpool. 

55.  Thomas  Wright,  Esq.  M.A.  F.S.A. 

56.  Samuel  E.  Clarke,  Esq.,  London. 
51.  Henry  G.  Sharpe,  Esq. 

58.  Thomas  J.  Pettigrew,  Esq.,  F.R.S. 

59.  Mr.  J.  Russell  Smith,  London. 

60.  Le  Gendre  Nicholas  Starkie,  Esq.,  Huntroyd. 

61.  Mrs.  Henry  Tallock,  Tlas  Clough. 

62.  John  James  Moss,  Esq.,  Otterspool.  ; 
63. 

64. 


65. 

66. 

67. 

68. 

69. 

70. 

71. 

72. 

73. 

74. 

73. 

76. 

77. 

78. 

79. 

80. 

81. 

82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

86. 

87. 

88. 

89. 
90. 
91. 
92. 
93. 
94. 
95. 
96. 
97. 
98. 
99. 
100, 


preface* 


When  this  work  was  commenced,  it  was  the  Editor's 
intention  to  limit  the  collection  exclusively  to  the  very 
early  poetical  remains  of  the  Palatine  counties;  and  in 
pursuance  of  this  design,  he  reprinted  the  '  Song  of  Lady 
Bessy,'  although  it  had  previously  been  edited  by  a  very 
able  historian.  It  was  found,  however,  that  the  composi- 
tions of  the  kind  required  were  not  so  numerous  as  was 
anticipated ;  and,  as  the  work  progressed,  a  few  articles  in 
prose  were  admitted,  for  which  the  reader's  indulgence 
must  be  solicited,  as  they  may  justly  be  regarded  as  at 
variance  with  the  title-page,  and  the  proposed  object  of 
the  selection. 

The  reader  will  observe,  I  have  attempted  no  literary 
illustration.  It  appeared  to  me  that  the  choice  lay,  in  most 
cases,  between  a  great  variety  of  annotation  and  none  at  all. 
The  latter  alternative  was  chosen,  and  I  am  only  to  be 
regarded  in  the  light  of  a  pioneer,  happy  if  the  collections 


XII 

here  brought  together  shall  prove  of  any  use  to  the  county 
historian  or  the  literary  antiquary.  Cheshire  has  the 
advantage  of  the  best  county  history  ever  published,  the 
meritorious  work  of  Dr.  Ormerod ;  while  the  edition  of 
'  Lady  Bessy,'  by  Thomas  Heywood,  Esq.,  exhibits  how 
much  learning  and  taste  can  be  displayed  on  these  antique 
relics. 

It  is  to  these  works  I  have  ventured  to  refer  for  expla- 
natory information.  Bostock's  verses  on  the  Earls  of 
Chester,  for  instance,  afford  an  example  of  a  production, 
very  curious  in  its  way,  but  requiring  an  excess  of  illus- 
tration almost  beyond  its  value.  The  student  will,  notwith- 
standing, be  pleased  to  have  the  opportunity  of  referring 
to  it.  A  similar  observation  will  apply  to  the  poem  on  the 
Stanley  family,  which  is  printed  from  an  early  manuscript 
copy  in  the  Bodleian  Library,  hitherto  unnoticed.  This 
latter  poem  may  be  considered  in  every  respect  the  most 
curious  in  the  collection,  and,  if  it  were  minutely  examined, 
would  be  found  to  possess  an  historical  value. 

The  '  Palatine  Garland,'  appended  to  the  present  volume, 
was  originally  intended  for  a  separate  work,  and  was 
printed  independently  of  the  '  Palatine  Anthology.'  The 
subscribers,  therefore,  will  thus  possess  two  collections  of 
poetical   materials    relating   to   Cheshire  and   Lancashire, 


XUl 


counties  most  deeply  interesting  to  the  archaeological  or 
literary  antiquary.  On  another  occasion,  perhaps,  I  may 
invite  them  to  follow  me  to  other  fields,  to  the  reliques  of 
historical  and  antiquarian  interest,  in  which  the  Palatine 
counties  are  so  rich  both  in  manuscript  and  architectural 
remains.  It  should,  however,  be  added,  that  the  only 
object  proposed  in  works  like  the  present,  and  for  which 
their  mode  of  circulation  is  so  especially  suited,  is  the 
collection  of  useful  materials,  not  the  formation  of  them 
into  critical  disquisitions  or  popular  narratives. 

April  22,  1850. 


Cl^e  palatine  ^ntjoloffg. 


I.-SONG  OF  LADY  BESSY. 


UR  materials  for  the  period  of  English 
history  to  which  the  following  ballad 
relates  are  so  remarkably  scanty,  that 
no  source  of  information  possessing  the  least 
claim   to  credit  can  be  willingly  passed  over. 
Were  it  otherwise,  a  poem  undoubtedly  con- 
taining   many    supposititious    particulars,    and 
which  may  well  be  considered  a  very  unsafe 
historical  guide,  would  deserve  little  attention 
apart  from  its  poetical  merits ;  but  we  unfortu- 
nately possess  no  other  contemporary  account 
of  the  proceedings  of  Elizabeth  of  York,  from 


Christmas  1484,  till  the  death  of  Richard  III. 
On  this  account  the  "  Song  of  Lady  Bessy" 
possesses  a  considerable  degree  of  interest. 

Only  two  copies  of  this  poem  have  been 
preserved,     differing    considerably    from    each 
other,  and  no  doubt  varying  in  a  great  degree 
from  the  author's  original  composition,  not  in 
facts,  but  in  language.     One  copy  is  contained 
in  a  MS.  of  the  time  of  Charles  II,  in  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Bateman,  of  Youlgrave,  Derby- 
shire, who  has  obligingly  collated  our  text  in 
proof  with  the  original  manuscript.     The  other 
copy  is  preserved  in  MS.  Harl.  367,  and  appears 
to  have  been  transcribed  about  the  year  1600. 
We  have  thought  it  expedient  to  give  both  of 
these  versions,  for  they  explain  each  other,  and 
exhibit  the  changes  which  transcribers  of  later 
days  made  in  remote  originals.     The  first  was 
edited  in  1829,  by  Mr.  Thomas  Hey  wood,  with 
an  able  introduction  and  judicious  notes;    but 
the  work  was  privately  printed,  and  is  now  very 


rarely  to  be  met  with.  The  copy  in  the  Harl. 
MS.  is  not  so  much  modernized,  and  is  of 
much  better  authority  than  that  printed  by 
Mr.  Heywood. 

It  appears  from  some  passages,  where  the 
writer  changes  abruptly  from  the  third  to  the 
first  person,  that  the  poem  was  composed  by 
Bessy's  "true  esquire,"  Humphrey  Brereton, 
who  was  in  the  service  of  Lord  Stanley.  Mr. 
Heywood  conjectures  him  to  have  been  a  native 
of  Cheshire,  and  informs  us  that  "in  the  pedi- 
gree of  the  Breretons  of  Stochlach  and  Malpas, 
a  younger  branch  of  the  house  of  the  same 
name  seated  at  Brereton,  Humphrey  appears  to 
have  been  the  third  son  of  Bartholomew 
Brereton,  and  to  have  lived  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  the  Seventh.  He  left  three  daughters  ; 
the  eldest  of  whom  marrying  into  the  neigh- 
bouring family  of  Dod  of  Edge,  her  descendants 
still  exist  in  the  representatives  of  that  ancient 
house.       Humphrey  is   described   in  the  Dod 


pedigree  as  seated  at  Grafton,  a  township  near 
Malpas."  This  conjecture  is  borne  out  by  the 
porter's  reason  for  his  gratification  at  seeing 
Humphrey, — 

"  For  a  Cheshire  man  bom  am  I  certain, 
From  the  Malpas  but  miles  three." 

The  antiquity  of  the  poem  is  satisfactorily 
proved  by  the  multipHcity  of  those  minute  traits 
of  language  and  manners,  which  must  have 
been  forgotten  by  a  more  recent  writer.  The 
author's  mistakes  in  the  general  history  of  the 
period  are  not  of  a  nature  to  weaken  his  credi- 
bility; and  as  Sir  H.  Nicolas  justly  observes, 
with  reference  to  his  speaking  of  Lord  Stanley 
as  Earl  of  Derby,  "  though  that  nobleman  did 
not  possess  the  latter  title  when  the  events 
described  took  place,  it  was  usual  for  early 
writers  to  allude  to  individuals  by  the  designa- 
tions borne  by  them  at  the  time  they  wrote." 
The  pecuHar  features  of  the  age,  the  costume, 
and   the   difficulty  of  correspondence,  are  too 


faithfully  described  to  leave  any  reasonable 
doubt  of  the  early  period  of  the  author.  It 
may  be,  however,  that  the  proof  of  Brereton's 
authorship  requires  some  further  confirmation. 

For  all  the  knovs^n  particulars  respecting 
Ehzabeth  of  York,  we  may  refer  to  Sir  H. 
Nicolas's  able  and  excellent  Memoir  prefixed  to 
the  *  Privy  Purse  Expenses  of  Ehzabeth  of 
York,'  8vo,  1830,  and  Miss  Strickland's  '  Lives 
of  the  Queens  of  England,'  vol.  iv.  The  latter 
work  contains  an  analysis  of  the  following  poem. 

It  is  right  to  state  that  I  have  previously 
reprinted  the  following  ballads  in  one  of  the 
publications  of  the  Percy  Society;  but  they 
form  so  essential  a  portion  of  this  Collection, 
that  their  hmited  circulation  amongst  the  Mem- 
bers of  that  body  was  not  considered  a  sufficient 
reason  for  their  exclusion. 


6 

TJie  most  pleasant  Song  of  Lady  Bessy,  the  eldest 
Daughter  of  King  Edward  the  Fourth^  and  how 
she  married  King  Henry  the  Seventh  of  the  House 
of  Lancaster. 

[OR  Jesus  sake  be  merry  and  glad, 

Be  blythe  of  blood,  of  bone,  and  blee, 
And  of  your  words  be  sober  and  sad, 
And  a  little  while  listen  to  me  : 
I  shall  tell  you  how  Lady  Bessy  made  her  moan. 

And  down  she  kneeled  upon  her  knee 
Before  the  Earle  of  Darby  her  self  alone. 

These  were  her  words  fair  and  free : — 
Who  was  your  beginner,  who  was  your  ground. 

Good  father  Stanley,  will  you  tell  me  ? 
Who  married  you  to  the  Margaret  Richmond, 

A  Dutchess  of  a  high  degree  ? 
And  your  son  the  Lord  George  Strange 

By  that  good  lady  you  had  him  by  ; 
And  Harden  lands  under  your  hands, 

And  Monies  dale  also  under  your  fee. 
Your  brother  Sir  William  Stanley  by  parliament, 

The  Holt  Castle  who  gave  him  truely  ? 
Who  gave  him  Brome-field,  that  I  now  ment  ? 

Who  gave  him  Chirk-land  to  his  fee  ? 


Who  made  him  High  Chamberlain  of  Cheshire  ? 

Of  that  country  farr  and  near 
They  were  all  wholly  at  his  desire, 

When  he  did  call  they  did  appear ; 
And  also  the  Forrest  of  Delameer, 

To  hunt  therin  both  day  and  night 
As  often  as  his  pleasure  were, 

And  to  send  for  baron  and  knight ; 
Who  made  the  knight  and  lord  of  all  ? 

Good  father  Stanley,  remember  thee ! 
It  was  my  father,  that  king  royall. 

He  set  you  in  that  room  so  high. 
Remember  Richmond  banished  full  bare. 

And  lyeth  in  Brittain  behind  the  sea, 
You  may  recover  him  of  his  care, 

If  your  heart  and  mind  to  him  will  gree  : 
Let  him  come  home  and  claim  his  right, 

And  let  us  cry  him  King  Henry ! 
And  if  you  will  maintain  him  mth  might. 

In  Brittain  he  needeth  not  long  to  tarry. 
Go  away,  Bessy,  the  lord  said  then, 

I  tell  thee  now  for  certainty, 
That  fair  words  make  oft  fooles  full  faine. 

When  they  be  but  found  vain  glory. 


8 

Oh !  father  Stanley,  to  you  I  call, 

For  the  love  of  God  remember  thee, 
Since  my  father  King  Edward,  that  king  royall. 

At  Westminster  on  his  death  bed  lee ; 
He  called  to  him  my  unckle  Richard, 

So  he  did  Robert  of  Brackenbury, 
And  James  Terrill  he  was  the  third ; 

He    sent    them    to    Ludlow    in    the    west 
countrey. 
To  fetch  the  Duke  of  York  and  the  Duke  of 
Clarence, 

These  two  lords  born  of  a  high  degree. 
The  Duke  pf  York  should  have  been  prince. 

And  king  after  my  father  free. 
But  a  balle-fuU  game  was  then  among, 

Wlien  they  doomed  these  two  lords  to  dye : 
They  had  neither  justice  nor  right,  but  had  great 
wrong. 

Alack !  it  was  the  more  pitty ! 
Neither  were  they  hurried  in  St.  Maries, 

In  church  or  churchyard  or  holy  place ; 
Alas !  they  had  dolefuU  destinies. 

Hard   was   their    chance,    worse    was    their 
disgrace  ! 


9 

Therefore  help,  good  father  Stanley,  while  you 
have  space, 

For  the  love  of  God  and  mild  Mary, 
Or  else  in  time  to  come  you  shall,  alas  ! 

Remember  the  words  of  Lady  Bessy ! 
Good  Lady  Bessy,  be  content. 

For  tho'  your  words  be  never  so  sweet. 
If  King  Richard  knew,  you  must  be  shent. 

And  perchance  cast  into  prison  deep ; 
Then  had  you  cause  to  waill  and  weep. 

And  wring  your  hands  with  heavy  chear  ; 
Therefore,  good  lady,  I  you  beseek 

To  move  me  no  more  in  this  matter. 
Oh !    good   father    Stanley,    listen   now  and 
hear; 

Heare  is  no  more  but  you  and  I : 
King  Edward  that  was  my  father  dear. 

On  whose  estate  God  had  mercy. 
In  Westminster  as  he  did  stand. 

On  a  certain  day  in  a  study, 
A  book  of  reason  he  had  in  his  hand. 

And  so  sore  his  study  he  did  apply, 
That  his  tender  tears  fell  on  the  ground, 

All  men  might  see  that  stood  him  by : 

2 


10 

There  were  both  earls  and  lords  of  land. 

But  none  of  them  durst  speak  but  I. 
I  came  before  my  father  the  king, 

And  kneeled  down  upon  my  knee ; 
I  desired  him  lowly  of  his  blessing, 

And  full  soon  he  gave  it  unto  me : 
And  in  his  arms  he  could  me  thring. 

And  set  me  in  a  window  so  high ; 
He  spake  to  me  full  sore  weeping, — 

These  were  the  words  he  said  to  me : 
Daughter,  as  thou  wilt  have  my  blessing, 

Do  as  I  shall  councell  thee, 
And  to  my  words  give  good  listning. 

For  one  day  they  may  pleasure  thee  : 
Here  is  a  book  of  Reason,  keep  it  well. 

As  you  will  have  the  love  of  me ; 
Neither  to  any  creature  do  it  tell. 

Nor  let  no  liveing  lord  it  see. 
Except  it  be  to  the  Lord  Stanley, 

The  which  I  love  Ml  heartiley : 
All  the  matter  to  him  show  you  may, 

For  he  and  his  thy  help  must  be ; 
As  soon  as  the  truth  to  him  is  shown 

Unto  your  words  he  will  agree ; 


11 

For  their  shall  never  son  of  my  body  he  gotten 

That  shall  be  crowned  after  me. 
But  you  shall  be  queen  and  wear  the  crown. 

So  doth  expresse  the  prophecye ! 
He  gave  me  tax  and  toland. 

And  also  diamonds  to  my  degree. 
To  gett  me  a  prince  when  it  pleaseth  Christ, 

The  world  is  not  as  it  will  be : 
Therefore,  good  father  Stanley,  grant  my  request 

For  the  love  of  God  1  desire  thee ; 
All  is  at  your  commandment  down  in  the  west, 

Both  knight  and  squire  and  the  commentie ; 
You  may  choose  then  where  you  like  best, 

I  have  enough  both  of  gold  and  fee ; 
I  want  nothing  but  the  strength  of  men, 

And  good  captains  two  or  three. 
Go  away,  Bessy,  the  lord  said  then. 

To  this  will  1  never  agree. 
For  women  oft  time  cannot  faine. 

These  words  they  be  but  vain  glory ! 
For  and  I  should  treason  begin 

Against  King  Richard  his  royalty. 
In  every  street  within  London 

The  Eagle's  foot  should  be  pulled  down, 


12 

And  as  yet  in  his  great  favour  I  am, 

But  then  shoud  I  loose  my  great  renowne  ! 

I  shoud  be  called  traitor  thro'  the  same 
Full  soon  in  every  markett  towne ! 

That  were  great  shame  to  me  and  my  name, 
I  had  rather  spend  ten  thousand  pounde. 

0  father  Stanley,  to  you  I  mak  my  moane, 
For  the  love  of  God  remember  thee  ; 

It  is  not  three  days  past  and  gone. 

Since  my  unckle  Richard  sent  after  me 
A  batchelor  and  a  bold  baron, 

A  Doctor  of  Divinitye, 
And  bad  that  I  should  to  his  chamber  gone, 

His  love  and  his  leman  that  I  should  bee  ; 
And  the  queen  that  was  his  wedded  feere. 

He  would  her  poyson  and  putt  away ; 
So  would  he  his  son  and  his  heir, 

Christ  knoweth  he  is  a  proper  boy ! 
Yet  I  had  rather  burn  in  a  tunne 

On  the  Tower  Hill  that  is  so  high. 
Or  that  I  would  to  his  chamber  come, 

His  love  and  his  leman  will  I  not  be ! 

1  had  rather  be  drawn  with  wild  horses  five. 

Through  every  street  of  that  citty. 


13 

Or  that  good  woman  should  lose  her  life. 

Good  father,  for  the  love  of  mee. 
I  am  his  brother's  daughter  dear ; 

He  is  my  uncle,  it  is  no  nay ; 
Or  ever  I  woud  be  his  wedded  feere. 

With  sharp  swords  I  will  me  slay ; 
At  his  bidding  if  I  were  then. 

And  follow'd  also  his  cruel  intent, 
I  were  well  worthy  to  suffer  pain. 

And  in  a  fire  for  to  be  brent. 
Therefore,  good  father  Stanley,  some  pitty  take 

On  the  Earle  Richmond  and  me, 
And  the  rather  for  my  father's  sake. 

Which  gave  thee  the  He  of  Man  so  free  ; 
He  crowned  thee  with  a  crown  of  lead. 

He  holpe  the  first  to  that  degree ; 
He  set  thee  the  crown  upon  thy  head, 

And  made  thee  the  lord  of  that  countrey ; 
That  time  you  promised  my  father  dear, 

To  him  to  be  both  true  and  just, 
And  now  you  stand  in  a  disweare. 

Oh !  Jesu  Christ,  who  may  men  trust  ? 
O  good  lady,  I  say  againe 

Your  fair  words  shall  never  move  my  mind ; 


14 

King  Richard  is  my  lord  and  sov'raign, 

To  him  I  will  never  be  unkind. 
I  will  serve  him  truely  till  I  die, 

I  will  him  take  as  I  him  find ; 
For  he  hath  given  to  mine  and  me. 

His  bounteous  gifts  do  me  so  bind. 
Yet  good  father  Stanley,  remember  thee. 

As  I  have  said  so  shall  it  prove. 
If  he  of  his  gift  be  soe  free. 

It  is  for  fear  and  not  for  love ; 
For  if  he  may  to  his  purpose  come. 

You  shall  not  live  these  years  three. 
For  these  words  to  me  he  did  once  move 

In  Sandall  Castle  underneath  a  tree  : 
He  said  there  shall  no  branch  of  the  eagle  fly 

Within  England,  neither  far  nor  nigh ; 
Nor  none  of  the  Talbots  to  run  him  by. 

Nor  none  of  their  lineage  to  the  ninth  degree  ; 
But  he  would  them  either  hang  or  head. 

And  that  he  swear  full  grievously. 
Therefore  help,  gentle  lord,  with  all  speed ; 

For  when  you  woud  fain  it  will  not  be. 
Your  brother  dwellith  in  the  Holt  Castle, 

A  noble  knight  forsooth  is  he ; 


15 

All  the  Welsh-men  love  him  well, 

He  may  make  a  great  company. 
Sir  John  Savage  is  your  sister's  son, 

He  is  well  beloved  within  his  shire, 
A  great  company  with  him  will  come. 

He  will  be  ready  at  your  desire. 
Gilbert  Talbott  is  a  captain  pure. 

He  wall  come  with  main  and  might ; 
To  you  he  will  be  fast  and  sure. 

Against  my  uncle  king  and  knight. 
Let  us  raise  an  host  with  him  to  fight, 

Soon  to  the  ground  we  shall  him  ding, 
For  God  vsdll  stand  ever  with  the  right. 

For  he  hath  no  right  to  be  king ! 
Go  away,  Bessy,  the  lord  can  say ; 

Of  these  words,  Bessy,  now  lett  be ; 
I  know  King  Richard  woud  not  me  betray. 

For  all  the  gold  in  Christantye. 
I  am  his  subject,  sworn  to  be  true : 

If  I  should  seek  treason  to  begin, 
I  and  all  mine  full  sore  should  rue. 

For  we  were  as  like  to  lose  as  winne. 
Beside  that,  it  were  a  deadly  sin 

To  refuse  my  king,  and  him  betray  : 


16 

The  child  is  yet  unborne  that  might  moan  in  time, 

And  think  upon  that  woeful!  day. 
Wherefore,  good  lady,  I  do  you  pray. 

Keep  all  things  close  at  your  hart  root ; 
So  now  farr  past  it  is  of  the  day. 

To  move  me  more  it  is  no  boot. 
Then  from  her  head  she  cast  her  attire, 

Her  colour  changed  as  pale  as  lead. 
Her  faxe  that  shoan  as  the  gold  wire 

She  tair  it  of  besides  her  head, 
And  in  a  swoon  down  can  she  swye, 

She  spake  not  of  a  certain  space  ! 
The  lord  had  never  so  great  pitty 

As  when  he  saw  her  in  that  case. 
And  in  his  arms  he  can  her  embrace  ; 

He  was  full  sorry  then  for  her  sake. 
The  tears  fell  from  his  eyes  apace. 

But  at  the  last  these  words  she  spake. 
She  said,  to  Christ  my  soul  I  betake. 

For  my  body  in  Tem'ms  drow'nd  shall  be  ! 
For  I  know  my  sorrow  will  never  slake. 

And  my  bones  upon  the  sands  shall  lye ! 
The  fishes  shall  feed  upon  me  their  fill ; 

This  is  a  dolefuUe  destinye ! 


17 

And  you  may  remedy  this  and  you  will, 

Therefore  the  bone  of  my  death  I  give  to  thee! 
And  ever  she  wept  as  she  were  woode, 

The  Earle  on  her  had  so  great  pitty, 
That  her  tender  heart  turned  his  mood. 

He  said,  Stand  up  now.  Lady  Bessye, 
As  you  think  best  I  will  agree. 

Now  I  see  the  matter  you  do  not  faine, 
I  have  thought  in  this  matter  as  much  as  yee : 

But  it  is  hard  to  trust  women, 
For  many  a  man  is  brought  into  great  woe, 

Through  telling  to  women  his  privity : 
I  trust  you  will  not  serve  me  so 

For  all  the  gold  in  Christantie. 
No,  father,  he  is  my  mortall  foe. 

On  him  fain  wrooken  woud  I  bee ! 
He  hath  put  away  my  brethren  two, 

And  I  know  he  would  do  so  by  me ; 
But  my  trust  is  in  the  Trinity, 

Through  your  help  we  shall  bale  to  him  bring, 
And  such  a  day  on  him  to  see 

That  he  and  his  full  sore  shall  rue  ! 
O  Lady  Bessye,  the  lord  can  say. 

Betwixt  us  both  forcast  we  must 

3 


18 

How  we  shall  letters  to  Richmond  convey, 

No  man  to  write  I  dare  well  trust ; 
For  if  he  list  to  be  unjust 

And  us  betray  to  King  Richard, 
Then  you  and  I  are  both  lost ; 

Therefore  of  the  scribe  I  am  afraid. 
You  shall  not  need  none  such  to  call. 

Good  father  Stanley,  hearken  to  me 
What  my  father.  King  Edward,  that  king  royal, 

Did  for  my  sister,  my  Lady  Wells,  and  me : 
He  sent  for  a  scrivener  to  lusty  London, 

He  was  the  best  in  that  citty ; 
He  taught  us  both  to  write  and  read  full  soon. 

If  it  please  you,  full  soon  you  shall  see  : 
Lauded  be  God,  I  had  such  speed. 

That  I  can  write  as  well  as  he. 
And  also  indite  and  full  well  read. 

And  that  (lord)  soon  shall  you  see. 
Both  English  and  alsoe  French, 

And  also  Spanish,  if  you  had  need. 
The  earle  said.  You  are  a  proper  wench. 

Almighty  Jesus  be  your  speed. 
And  give  us  grace  to  proceed  out. 

That  we  may  letters  soon  convey 


19 

In  secrett  wise  and  out  of  doubt 

To  Richmond,  that  lyeth  beyond  the  sea. 
We  must  depart,  lady,  the  earle  said  then ; 

Wherefore  keep  this  matter  secretly. 
And  this  same  night,  betwixt  nine  and  ten, 

In  your  chamber  I  think  to  be. 
Look  that  you  make  all  things  ready, 

Your  maids  shall  not  our  councell  hear. 
For  I  will  bring  no  man  with  me 

But  Humphrey  Brereton,  my  true  esquire. 
He  took  his  leave  of  that  lady  fair. 

And  to  her  chamber  she  went  full  tight, 
And  for  all  things  she  did  prepare. 

Both  pen  and  ink,  and  paper  white. 
The  lord  unto  his  study  went. 

Forecasting  with  all  his  might 
To  bring  to  pass  all  his  intent ; 

He  took  no  rest  till  it  was  night. 
And  when  the  stars  shone  fair  and  bright, 

He  him  disguised  in  strange  mannere ; 
He  went  unknown  of  any  wyght. 

No  more  with  him  but  his  esquire. 
And  when  he  came  her  chamber  near. 

Full  privily  there  can  he  stand. 


20 


To  cause  the  lady  to  appeare 

He  made  a  signe  with  his  right  hand ; 
And  when  the  lady  there  him  wist, 

She  was  as  glad  as  she  might  be. 
Char-coals  in  chimneys  there  were  cast, 

Candles  on  sticks  standing  full  high ; 
She  opened  the  wickett  and  let  him  in. 

And  said,  welcome,  lord  and  knight  soe  free ! 
A  rich  chair  was  set  for  him, 

And  another  for  that  fair  lady. 
They  ate  the  spice  and  drank  the  wine, 

He  had  all  things  at  his  intent ; 
They  rested  them  as  for  a  time. 

And  to  their  study  then  they  went. 
Then  that  lady  so  fair  and  free. 

With  rudd  as  red  as  rose  in  May, 
She  kneeled  down  upon  her  knee. 

And  to  the  lord  thus  can  she  say : 
Good  father  Stanley,  I  you  pray. 

Now  here  is  no  more  but  you  and  I ; 
Let  me  know  what  you  will  say. 

For  pen  and  paper  I  have  ready. 
He  saith,  commend  me  to  my  son  George  Strange, 

In  Latham  Castle  there  he  doth  lye. 


21 

When  I  parted  with  him  his  heart  did  change, 

From  Latham  to  Manchester  he  road  me  by. 
Upon  Salford  Bridge  I  turned  my  horse  againe, 

My  son  George  by  the  hand  I  hent ; 
I  held  so  hard  forsooth  certaine, 

That  his  formast  finger  out  of  the  joint  went : 
I  hurt  him  sore,  he  did  complain, 

These  words  to  him  then  I  did  say : 
Son,  on  my  blessing,  turne  home  againe, 

This  shall  be  a  token  another  day. 
Bid  him  come  like  a  merchant  of  Farnfield, 

Of  CooplandjOr  of  Kendall,  wheather  that  it  be. 
And  seven  with  him,  and  no  more  else, 

For  to  bear  him  company. 
Bid  him  lay  away  watch  and  ward. 

And  take  no  heed  to  mynstrel's  glee ; 
Bid  him  sit  at  the  lower  end  of  the  board. 

When  he  is  amongst  his  meany, 
His  back  to  the  door,  his  face  to  the  wall. 

That  comers  and  goers  shall  not  him  see ; 
Bid  him  lodge  in  no  common  hall. 

But  keep  him  unknowne  right  secretly. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother  Sir  William  so  dear. 

In  the  Holt  Castle  there  dwelleth  bee ; 


22 

Since  the  last  time  that  we  together  were, 

In  the  forest  of  Delameere  both  fair  and  free, 
And  seven  harts  upon  one  hearde, 

Were  brought  to  the  buck  sett  to  him  and  me ; 
But  a  forester  came  to  me  with  a  whoore  bearde. 

And  said,  good  sir,  awhile  rest  ye, 
I  have  found  you  a  hart  in  Darnall  Park, 

Such  a  one  I  never  saw  with  my  eye. 
I  did  him  crave,  he  said  I  shoud  him  have ; 

He  was  brought  to  the  broad  heath  truely ; 
At  him  I  let  my  grayhound  then  slipp. 

And  followed  after  while  I  might  dree. 
He  left  me  lyeing  in  an  ould  moss  pitt. 

And  loud  laughter  then  laughed  hee ; 
He  said.  Rise  up,  and  draw  out  your  cousin ; 

The  deer  is  dead,  come  you  and  see. 
Bid  him  come  as  a  marchant  of  Carnarvon, 

Or  else  of  Bew-morris  whether  it  be ; 
And  in  his  company  seven  Welshmen, 

And  come  to  London  and  speak  to  me ; 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  speak  with  him, 

I  think  it  long  since  I  him  see. 
Commend  me  to  Sir  John  Savage,  that  knight. 

Lady,  he  is  my  sister's  sone. 


23 

Since  upon  a  friday  at  night 

Before  my  bedside  he  kneeled  downe  : 
He  desired  me  as  I  was  uncle  dear, 

Many  a  time  full  tenderly, 
That  I  would  lowly  King  Richard  require 

If  I  might  get  him  any  fee. 
I  came  before  my  soveraigne  lord. 

And  kneeled  down  upon  my  knee, 
So  soon  to  me  he  did  accord 

I  thanked  him  full  courteously, 
A  gatt  him  an  hundred  pounds  in  Kent 

To  him  and  his  heirs  perpetually, 
Alsoe  a  manor  of  a  duchy  rent. 

Two  hundred  pounds  he  may  spend  thereby. 
And  high  sheriff  of  Worcestershire, 

And  alsoe  the  park  of  Tewksbury. 
He  hath  it  all  at  his  desire. 

Therewith  dayley  he  may  make  merry. 
Bid  him  come  as  a  merchant  man 

Of  West  Chester,  that  fair  city. 
And  seven  yeomen  to  wait  him  on. 

Bid  him  come  to  London  and  speak  with  me. 
Commend  me  to  good  Gilbert  Talbott, 

A  gentle  esquire  forsooth  is  he ; 


24 

Once  on  a  Fryday,  full  well  I  woot 

King  Richard  called  him  traitour  high : 
But  Gilbert  to  his  fawchon  prest, 
A  bold  esquire  forsooth  is  he ; 
Their  durst  no  sarjant  him  arreast, 

He  is  called  so  perlous  of  his  body. 
In  the  Tower  Street  I  meet  him  then 

Going  to  Westminster  to  take  sanctuarie  : 
I  Hght  beside  my  horse  I  was  upon. 

The  purse  from  my  belt  I  gave  him  truely ; 
I  bad  him  ride  down  into  the  North- West, 
Perchance  a   knight   in    England    I    might 
him  see : 
Wherefore  pray  him  at  my  request 

To  come  to  London  to  speak  with  me. 
Then  said  the  royaU  lord  so  just. 

Now  you  have  written,  and  sealed  have  I, 
There  is  no  messenger  that  we  may  trust. 
To    bring   these    writeings    into    the    West 
Countrey, 
Because  our  matter  it  is  so  high, 

Least  any  man  wou'd  us  descry. 
Humphrey  Brereton,  then  said  Bessy e, 
Hath  been  true  to  my  father  and  me ; 


25 

He  shall  take  the  writeings  in  hand, 

And  bring  them  into  the  West  Countrey : 
I  trust  him  best  of  all  this  land 

On  this  message  to  go  for  me. 
Go  to  thy  bed,  father,  and  sleep  full  soon, 

And  I  shall  wake  for  you  and  me. 
By  tomorrow  at  the  riseing  of  the  sune, 

Humphrey  Brereton  shall  be  with  thee. 
She  brings  the  lord  to  his  bed  so  trimly  dight 

All  that  night  where  he  should  lye. 
And  Bessy  waked  all  that  night. 

There  came  no  sleep  within  her  eye  : 
In  the  morning  when  the  day  can  spring. 

Up  riseth  young  Bessye, 
And  maketh  hast  in  her  dressing ; 

To  Humphrey  Brereton  gone  is  she : 
But  when  she  came  to  Humphrey's  bower  bright. 

With  a  small  voice  called  she, 
Humphrey  answered  that  lady  bright, 

Saith,  Who  calleth  on  me  so  early  ? 
I  am  King  Edward's  daughter  right. 

The  Countesse  clear,  young  Bessy, 
In  all  hast  with  mean  and  might 

Thou  must  come  speak  with  the  Earle  of  Darby. 

4 


26 

Humphrey  cast  upon  him  a  gowne, 

And  a  pair  of  sKppers  upon  his  feet ; 
Alas !  said  Humphrey,  I  may  not  ride, 

My  horse  is  tired  as  you  may  see ; 
Since  I  came  from  London  city. 

Neither  night  nor  day,  I  tell  you  plain. 
There  came  no  sleep  within  my  eye ; 

On  my  business  I  thought  certaine. 
Lay  thee  down,  Humphrey,  he  said,  and  sleep, 

I  will  give  space  of  hours  three  : 
A  fresh  horse  I  thee  beehyte. 

Shall  bring  thee  through  the  West  Countrey. 
Humphrey  slept  not  hours  two, 

But  on  his  journey  well  thought  hee ; 
A  fresh  horse  was  brought  him  tooe. 

To  bring  him  through  the  West  Countrey. 
Then  Humphrey  Brereton  with  mickle  might, 

Hard  at  Latham  knocketh  hee ; 
Who  is  it,  said  the  porter,  this  time  of  the  night. 

That  so  hastily  calleth  on  mee  ? 
The  porter  then  in  that  state. 

That  time  of  the  night  riseth  hee. 
And  forthwith  opened  me  the  gate. 

And  received  both  my  horse  and  me. 


27 

Then  said  Humphrey  Brereton,  truely 

With  the  Lord  Strange  speak  would  I  faine, 
From  his  father  the  Earle  of  Darby. 

Then  was  I  welcome  that  time  certaine ; 
A  torch  burned  that  same  tide. 

And  other  lights  that  he  might  see ; 
And  brought  him  to  the  bedd  side 

Wliere  as  the  Lord  Strange  he. 
The  lord  mused  in  that  tide, 

Said,  Humphrey  Brereton,  what  mak'st  thou 
here? 
How  fareth  my  father,  that  noble  lord. 

In  all  England  that  hath  no  peer? 
Humphrey  took  him  a  letter  in  hand, 

And  said,   Behold,    my  lord,   and  you  may 
see. 
When  the  Lord  Strange  looked  the  letter  upon. 

The  tears  trickled  downe  from  his  eye : 
He  said,  we  must  come  under  a  cloud. 

We  must  never  trusted  bee  ; 
We  may  sigh  and  make  a  great  moane. 

This  world  is  not  as  it  will  bee. 
Have  here,  Humphrey,  pounds  three. 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  bee ; 


28 

Commend  me  to  my  father  dear, 

His  daily  blessing  he  would  give  me ; 
He  said  also  in  that  tide. 

Tell  him  also  thus  from  me ; 
If  I  be  able  to  go  or  ride. 

This  appointment  keep  will  I. 
When  Humphrey  received  the  gold,  I  say. 

Straight  to  Manchester  rideth  hee, 
The  sun  was  hght  up  of  the  day. 

He  was  aware   of  the  Warden  and  Edward 
Stanley ; 
The  one  brother  said  to  the  other. 

As  they  together  their  mattins  did  say : 
Behold,  he  said,  my  own  dear  brother. 

Yonder  comes   Humphrey  Brereton,  it  is  no 
nay, 
My  father's  servant  at  command. 

Some  hasty  tydeings  bringeth  hee. 
He  took  them  either  a  letter  in  hand. 

And  bad  them  behold,  read  and  see : 
They  turn'd  their  backs  shortly  tho'. 

And  read  those  letters  readily. 
Up  they  leap  and  laughed  too. 

And  also  they  made  game  and  glee, — 


29 

Fair  fare  our  father,  that  noble  lord, 

To  stirr  and  rise  now  beginneth  hee ; 
Buckingham's  blood  shall  be  wroken, 

That  was  beheaded  in  Salsbury ; 
Fare  fall  that  countesse,  the  king's  daughter. 

That  fair  lady,  young  Bessye, 
We  trust  in  Jesus  in  time  hereafter, 

To  bring  thy  love  over  the  sea. 
Have  here,  Humphrey,  of  either  of  us  shillings  ten, 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  bee. 
He  took  the  gold  of  the  two  gentlemen. 

To  Sir  John  Savage  then  rideth  hee ; 
He  took  him  then  a  letter  in  hand. 

And  bad  him  behold,  read  and  see : 
When  Sir  John  Savage  looked  the  letter  upon. 

All  blackned  the  knight's  blee  ; 
Woman's  wisdom  is  wondrous  to  hear,  loe. 

My  uncle  is  turned  by  young  Bessye : 
Whether  it  turn  to  waile  or  woe. 

At  my  uncle's  bidding  will  I  bee. 
To  Sheffield  Castle  at  that  same  tide. 

In  all  the  hast  that  might  bee, 
Humphrey  took  his  horse  and  forth  could  ride 

To  Gilbert  Talbot  fair  and  free. 


30 

He  took  him  a  letter  in  his  hand, 

Behold,  said  Humphrey,  read  and  see ; 
When  he  the  letter  looked  upon, 

A  loud  laughter  laughed  hee, — 
Fare  fall  that  lord  in  his  renowne  there. 

To  stirr  and  rise  heginneth  hee  : 
Fair  fall  Bessye  that  countesse  clear. 

That  such  councell  cou'd  give  truely ; 
Commend  me  to  my  nephew  nigh  of  blood. 

The  young  Earle  of  Shrewsbury, 
Bid  him  neither  dread  for  death  nor  good ; 

In  the  Tower  of  London  if  he  bee, 
I  shall  make  London  gates  to  tremble  and  quake. 

But  my  nephew  borrowed  shall  bee. 
Commend  me  to  the  countesse  that  fair  make. 

King  Edward's  daughter,  young  Bessy : 
Tell  her  I  trust  in  Jesu  that  hath  no  pear. 

To  bring  her  love  over  the  sea. 
Commend  me  to  that  lord  to  me  so  dear. 

That  lately  was  made  the  Earle  of  Darby  : 
And  every  hair  of  my  head 

For  a  man  counted  might  bee. 
With  that  lord  without  any  dread. 

With  him  will  I  live  and  dye. 


31 

Have  here,  Humphrey,  pounds  three, 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  bee : 
Look  to  London  gates  thou  ride  quickly, 

In  all  the  hast  that  may  bee  ; 
Commend  me  to  that  countesse  young  Bessy, 

She  was  King  Edward's  daughter  dear. 
Such  a  one  she  is,  I  say  truely. 

In  all  this  land  she  hath  no  peer. 
He  took  his  leave  at  that  time, 

Strait  to  London  rideth  he. 
In  all  the  hast  that  he  could  wdnd. 

His  journey  greatly  he  did  apply. 
But  when  he  came  to  London,  as  I  weene. 

It  was  but  a  little  before  the  evening. 
There  was  he  warr,  walking  in  a  garden. 

Both  the  earle,  and  Richard  the  king. 
When  the  earle  did  Humphrey  see. 

When  he  came  before  the  king. 
He  gave  him  a  privy  twink  then  with  his  eye. 

Then  downe  falls  Humphrey  on  his  knees  kneeling; 
Welcome,  Humphrey,  says  the  lord, 

I  have  missed  thee  weeks  three. 
I  have  been  in  the  west,  my  lord. 

There  born  and  bred  was  I, 


.32 

For  to  sport  and  play  me  certaine, 

Among  my  friends  far  and  nigh. 
Tell  me,  Humphrey,  said  the  earle  then, 

How  fareth  all  that  same  countrey  ? 
Of  aU  the  countreys  I  dare  well  say. 

They  be  the  flower  of  chivalry ; 
For  they  will  bycker  with  their  bowes. 

They  will  fight  and  never  fly. 
Tell  me,  Humphrey,  I  thee  pray. 

How  fareth  King  Richard  his  commenty  ; 
When  King  Richard  heard  him  say  so. 

In  his  heart  he  was  right  merry ; 
He  with  his  cap  that  was  so  dear, 

He  thanked  that  lord  most  courteously  : 
And  said,  father  Stanley,  thou  art  to  me  near, 

You  are  the  chief  of  our  poor  commenty ; 
Half  England  shall  be  thine. 

It  shall  be  equall  between  thee  and  me ; 
I  am  thine  and  thou  art  mine, 

So  two  fellows  wdU  we  bee. 
I  swear  by  Mary,  that  mild  maiden, 

I  know  no  more  such  under  the  skye ; 
When  I  am  king  and  wear  the  crown,  then 

I  will  be  chief  of  the  poor  commenty  : 


33 

Task  nor  mize  I  will  make  none, 

In  no  countrey  farr  nor  nigh  ; 
If  their  goods  I  shoud  take  and  pluck  them 
downe. 

For  me  they  woud  fight  fuU  faintly : 
There  is  no  riches  to  me  so  rich 

As  is  the  love  of  our  poor  commenty. 
When  they  had  ended  all  their  speeches, 

They  take  their  leave  full  heartiley ; 
And  to  his  bower  King  Richard  is  gone. 

The  earle  and  Humphrey  Brereton 
To  Bessy's  bower  anon  were  gone ; 

When  Bessy  Humphrey  did  see  anon. 
She  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him  times 
three. 

Welcome,  she  said,  Humphrey  Brereton ; 
How  hast  thou  spedd  in  the  West  Countrey 

I  pray  thee  tell  me  quickly  and  anon. 
Into  a  parlour  they  went  from  thence, 

There  were  no  more  but  he  and  shee : 
Humphrey,  said  Bessy,  tell  me  e're  we  go  hence 

Some  tideings  out  of  the  West  Countrey ; 
If  I  shall  send  for  yonder  prince 

To  come  over  the  sea,  for  the  love  of  me, 

5 


34 

And  if  King  Richard  shoud  him  convince, 

Alas !  it  were  great  ruthe  to  see. 
Or    murthered  among  the   Stanley's   blood  to 
be, 

Indeed  that  were  great  pitty ; 
That  sight  on  that  prince  I  would  not  see 

For  all  the  gold  in  Christantie ! 
Tell  me,  Humphrey,  I  thee  pray, 

How  hast  thou  spedd  in  the  West  Countrey  ? 
What  answer  of  them  thou  had  now  say, 

And  what  reward  they  gave  to  thee. 
By  the  third  day  of  May  it  shall  be  seen, 

In  London  all  that  they  will  bee ; 
Thou  shalt  in  England  be  a  queen. 

Or  else  doubtless  that  they  will  dye. 
Thus  they  proceed  forth  the  winter  then. 

Their  councell  they  kept  close  all  three, 
The  earle  he  wrought  by  prophecy  certaine. 

In  London  he  would  not  abide  or  bee, 
But  in  the  subburbs  without  the  city 

An  ould  inn  chosen  hath  hee. 
A  drew  an  Eagle  foot  on  the  door  truely, 

That  the  western  men  might  know  where  he 
did  lye. 


35 

Humphrey  stood  on  a  high  tower  then, 

He  looked  into  the  West  Countrey ; 
Sir  William  Stanley  and  seven  in  green, 

He  was  aware  of  the  Eagle  drawne ; 
He  drew  himselfe  so  wonderous  nigh, 

And  bad  his  men  go  into  the  towne, 
And  drink  the  wine  and  make  merry ; 

Into  the  same  inn  he  went  full  prest. 
Whereas  the  earle  his  brother  lay. 

Humphrey  full  soon  into  the  west 
Looks  over  a  long  lee ; 

He  was  aware  of  the  Lord  Strange  and  seven 
in  green, 
Come  rideing  into  the  city. 

When  he  was  aware  of  the  Eagle  drawn, 
He  drew  himself  so  wonderously  nigh. 

He  bad  his  men  go  into  the  towne  certain. 
And  drink  the  wine  and  make  merry ; 

And  he  himselfe  drew  then. 
Where  as  his  father  in  the  inne  lay. 

Humphrey  looked  in  the  w^est,  I  say. 
Sixteen  in  green  then  did  he  see ; 

He  was  aware  of  the  Warden  and  Edward 
Stanley, 


36 

Come  rideing  both  in  one  company. 

When  they  were  aware  of  the  Eagle  drawne, 
The  gentlemen  they  drew  it  nee ; 

And  bad  their  men  go  into  the  towne, 
And  drink  the  wine  and  make  merry. 

And  did  go  themselves  into  the  same  inn  full 
prest, 
Wliere  the  earle  their  father  lay. 

Yet  Humphrey  beholdeth  into  the  west, 
And  looketh  towards  the  north  countrey ; 

He  was  aware  of  Sir  John  Savage  and  Sir 
Gilbert  Talbot, 
Came  rideing  both  in  one  company. 

When  they  were  aware  of  the  Eagle  drawn, 
Themselves  grew  it  full  nigh. 

And  bad  their  men  go  into  the  towne, 
To  drink  the  wine  and  make  merry. 

They  did  go  themselves  into  the  same  inn, 
Wliere  as  the  earle  and  Bessy  lye. 

When  all  the  lords  together  were. 
Amongst  them  all  Bessy  was  full  buissy ; 

With  goodly  words  Bessy  then  said  there, 
Fair  lords,  what  will  you  do  for  me  ? 

Will  you  relieve  yonder  prince, 


37 

That  is  exiled  beyond  the  sea? 

I  woud  not  have  King  Richard  him  to  con- 
For  all  the  gold  in  Christentye.  [vince, 

The  Earle  of  Darby  came  forth  then, 
These  words  he  said  to  young  Bessye, — 

Ten  thousand  pounds  will  I  send, 
Bessy,  for  the  love  of  thee. 

And  twenty  thousand  Eagle  feet. 
The  queen  of  England  for  to  make  thee ; 

Then  Bessy  most  lowly  the  earle  did  greet. 
And  thankt  his  honor  most  heartiley. 

Sir  William  Stanley  came  forth  then. 
These  words  he  said  to  fair  Bessy : 

Remember,  Bessy,  another  time. 
Who  doth  the  most,  Bessy,  for  thee ; 

Ten  thousand  coats,  that  shall  be  red  certaine. 
In  an  hours  warning  ready  shall  bee ; 

In  England  thou  shalt  be  our  queen, 
Or  doubtlesse  I  will  dye. 

Sir  John  Savage  came  forth  then. 
These  words  he  said  to  young  Bessye, — 

A  thousand  marks  for  thy  sake  certaine, 
Will  I  send  thy  love  beyond  the  sea. 

Sir  Gilbert  Talbott  came  forth  then, 


38 

These  were  the  words  he  said  to  Bessy : 

Ten  thousand  marks  for  thy  sake  certaine, 
I  will  send  to  beyond  the  sea. 

The  Lord  Strange  came  forth  then, 
These  were  the  words  he  said  to  Bessy  : 

A  little  money  and  few  men, 
Will  bring  thy  love  over  the  sea ; 

Let  us  keep  our  gold  at  home,  said  he, 
For  to  wage  our  company ; 

For  if  we  should  send  it  over  the  sea. 
We  shoud  put  our  gold  in  jeopartie. 

Edward  Stanley  came  forth  then, 
These  were  the  words  he  said  to  Bessye : 

Remember,  Bessye,  another  time. 
Who  that  now  doth  the  best  for  thee. 

For  there  is  no  power  that  I  have. 
Nor  no  gold  for  to  give  thee  ;  [save, 

I  will  be  under  my  father's  banner,  if  God  me 
There  either  to  live  or  dye. 

Bessye  came  forth  before  the  lords  all. 
And  downe  she  falleth  upon  her  knee ; 

Nineteen  thousand  pound  of  gold,  I  shall 
Send  my  love  behind  the  sea, 

A  love  letter,  and  a  gold  ring, 


39 

From  my  heart  root  rite  will  I. 

Who  shall  be  the  messenger  the  same  to  bring, 
Both  the  gold  and  the  writeing  over  the  sea? 

Humphrey  Brereton,  said  Bessy, 
I  know  him  trusty  and  true  certaine, 

Therefore  the  writeing  and  the  gold  truely 
By  him  shall  be  carried  to  Little  Brittaine. 

Alas,  said  Humphrey,  I  dare  not  take  in  hand, 
To  carry  the  gold  over  the  sea ; 

These  galley  shipps  they  be  so  strange. 
They  will  me  night  so  wonderously ; 

They  will  me  robb,  they  will  me  drowne, 
They  will  take  the  gold  from  me. 

Hold  thy  peace,  Humphrey,  said  Bessye  then. 
Thou  shalt  it  carry  without  jepordye ; 

Thou  shalt  not  have  any  caskett  nor  any  male, 
Nor  budgett,  nor  cloak  sack,  shall  go  with  thee  ; 

Three  mules  that  be  stiff  and  strong  withall. 
Sore  loaded  with  gold  shall  they  bee. 

With  saddle-side  skirted  I  do  tell  thee 
Wherein  the  gold  sowe  will  I : 

If  any  man  faine  whose  is  the  shipp  truely 
That  saileth  forth  upon  the  sea. 

Say  it  is  the  Lord  Lislay, 


40 

In  England  and  France  well  beloved  is  he. 

Then  came  forth  the  Earle  of  Darby, 
These  words  he  said  to  young  Bessy : 

He  said,  Bessye,  thou  art  to  blame 
To  appoint  any  shipp  upon  the  sea ; 

I  have  a  good  shipp  of  my  owne. 
Shall  carry  Humphrey  with  the  mules  three ; 

An  eagle  shall  be  drawne  upon  the  mast  top, 
That  the  Italians  may  it  see  ; 

There  is  no  freak  in  all  France 
The  eagle  that  dare  come  nee. 

If  any  one  ask  whose  shipp  it  is,  then 
Say  it  is  the  Earles  of  Darby. 

Humphrey  took  the  three  mules  then, 
Into  the  west  wind  wou'd  hee, 

Without  all  doubt  at  Liverpoole 
He  took  shipping  upon  the  sea : 

With  a  swift  wind  and  a  hart. 
He  so  saild  upon  the  sea, 

To  Beggrames  Abbey  in  Little  Brittain, 
Where  as  the  English  Prince  lie ; 

The  porter  was  a  Cheshire  man. 
Well  he  knew  Humphrey  when  he  him  see  ; 

Humphrey  knockt  at  the  gate  truely. 


41 

Where  as  the  porter  stood  it  by, 
And  welcomed  me  full  heartiley. 

And  received  then  my  mules  three ; 
I  shall  thee  give  in  this  breed 

To  thy  reward  pounds  three ; 
I  will  none  of  thy  gold,  the  porter  said. 

Nor  Humphrey  none  of  the  fee, 
I  will  open  thee  the  gates  certaine 

To  receive  thee  and  the  mules  three ; 
For  a  Cheshire  man  born  am  I  certain. 

From  the  Malpas  but  miles  three. 
The  porter  opened  the  gates  that  time. 

And  received  him  and  the  mules  three. 
The  wine  that  was  in  the  hall  that  time 

He  gave  to  Humphrey  Brereton  truely. 
Alas !  said  Humphrey,  how  shoud  I  doe, 

I  am  strayed  in  a  strange  countrey. 
The  Prince  of  England  I  do  not  know, 

Before  I  never  did  him  see. 
I  shall  thee  tell,  said  the  porter  then. 

The  Prince  of  England  know  shall  ye. 
Low  where  he  siteth  at  the  butts  certaine, 

With  other  lords  two  or  three  j 
He  weareth  a  gown  of  velvet  black — 

6 


42 

And  it  is  cutted  above  the  knee, 
With  a  long  visage  and  pale  and  black — 

Thereby  know  that  prince  may  ye ; 
A  wart  he  hath,  the  porter  said, 

A  little  alsoe  above  the  chinn, 
His  face  is  white,  his  wart  is  redd, 

No  more  than  the  head  of  a  small  pinn  ; 
You  may  know  the  prince  certaine. 

As  soon  as  you  look  upon  him  truely. — 
He  received  the  wine  of  the  porter,  then 

With  him  he  took  the  mules  three. 
When  Humphrey  came  before  that  prince 

He  falleth  downe  upon  his  knee, 
He  delivereth  the  letters  which  Bessy  sent. 

And  so  did  he  the  mules  three, 
A  rich  ring  with  a  stone. 

Thereof  the  prince  glad  was  hee ; 
He  took  the  ring  of  Humphrey  then. 

And  kissed  the  ring  times  three. 
Humphrey  kneeled  still  as  any  stone. 

As  sure  as  I  do  tell  to  thee ; 
Humphrey  of  the  prince  answer  gott  none. 

Therefore  in  heart  was  he  heavy ; 
Humphrey  stood  up  then  full  of  skill, 


43 

And  then  to  the  prince  said  he : 
Why  standest  thou  so  still  at  thy  will. 

And  no  answer  dost  give  to  me  ? 
I  am  come  from  the  Stanley's  blood  so  dear, 

King  of  England  for  to  make  thee, 
A  fairer   lady  then  thou  shalt  have  to  thy 
fair, 

There  is  not  one  in  all  Christantye ; 
She  is  a  countesse,  a  king's  daughter,  Humphrey 
said. 

The  name  of  her  it  is  Bessye, 
She  can  write,  and  she  can  read. 

Well  can  she  work  by  prophecy ; 
I  may  be  called  a  lewd  messenger. 

For  answer  of  thee  I  can  gett  none, 
I  may  sail  home  with  heavy  cheare. 

What  shall  I  say  when  I  come  home  ? 
The  prince  he  took  the  Lord  Lee, 

And  the  Earle  of  Oxford  was  him  nee. 
The  Lord  Ferris  wou'd  not  him  beguile  truely, 

To  councell  they  are  gone  all  three ; 
When  they  had  their  councell  taken. 

To  Humphrey  then  turned  he  : 
Answer,  Humphrey,  I  can  give  none  truely 


44 

Within  the  space  of  weeks  three  : 
The  mules  into  a  stable  were  taken  anon. 

The  saddle  skirts  unopened  were, 
Therein  he  found  gold  great  plenty 

For  to  wage  a  company. 
He  caused  the  abbot  to  make  him  chear : 

In  my  stead  now  let  him  be. 
If  I  be  king  and  wear  the  crown 

Well  acquited,  Abbott,  shalt  thou  be. 
Early  in  the  morning  they  made  them  knowne. 

As  soon  as  the  light  they  cou'd  see ; 
With  him  he  taketh  his  lords  three. 

And  straight  to  Paris  he  took  his  way. 
An  herriott  of  arms  they  made  ready. 

Of  men  and  money  they  cou'd  him  pray, 
And  shipps  to  bring  him  over  the  sea. 

The  Stanley's  blood  for  me  hath  sent. 
The  King  of  England  for  to  make  me. 

And  I  thank  them  for  their  intent. 
For  if  ever  in  England  I  wear  the  crowne. 

Well  acquited  the  King  of  France  shall  be 
Then  answered  the  King  of  France  anon, 

Men  nor  money  he  getteth  none  of  me. 
Nor  no  shipps  to  bring  him  over  the  sea ; 


45 

In  England  if  he  wear  the  crowne, 
Then  will  he  claim  them  for  his  own  truely  : 

With  this  answer  departed  the  prince  anon, 
And  so  departed  the  same  tide. 

And  the  English  lords  three 
To  Beggrames  Abbey  soon  coud  the  ride. 

There  as  Humphrey  Brereton  then  lee ; 
Have  Humphrey  a  thousand  mark  here. 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  be ; 
Commend  me  to  Bessy  that  countesse  clear, 

Before  her  never  did  I  see : 
I  trust  in  God  she  shall  be  my  feer. 

For  her  I  will  travell  over  the  sea ; 
Commend  me  to   my  father  Stanley,   to  me  so 

My  owne  mother  married  hath  he,  [dear, 

Bring  him  here  a  love  letter  full  right 

And  another  to  young  Bessye, 
Tell  her  I  trust  in  Jesus  full  of  might 

That  my  queen  that  she  shall  bee ; 
Commend  me  to  Sir  Willam  Stanley, 

That  noble  knight  in  the  west  countrey, 
Tell  him  that  about  Michaelmas  certaine 

In  England  I  do  hope  to  be ; 
Att  MiUford  haven  I  wiU  come  inn 


46 

With  all  the  power  that  make  may  I, 
The  first  towne  I  will  come  inn 

Shall  be  the  towne  of  Shrewsbury ; 
Pray  Sir  Wilham  Stanley,  that  noble  knight, 

That  night  that  he  will  look  on  me : 
Commend  me  to  Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  that  royaU 
knight. 

He  much  in  the  north  countrey. 
And  Sir  John  Savage,  that  man  of  might, — 

Pray  them  all  to  look  on  me. 
For  I  trust  in  Jesus  Christ  so  fuU  of  might. 

In  England  for  to  abide  and  bee. 
I  will  none  of  thy  gold,  sir  prince,  said  Humphrey 
then, 

Nor  none  sure  will  I  have  of  thy  fee. 
Therefore  keep  thy  gold  thee  within. 

For  to  wage  thy  company ; 
If  every  hair  were  a  man. 

With  thee,  sir  prince,  will  I  be  : 
Thus  Humphrey  Brereton  his  leave  hath  tane. 

And  saileth  forth  upon  the  sea. 
Straight  to  London  he  rideth  then. 

There  as  the  carle  and  Bessy  lay ; 
And  bad  them  behold,  read  and  see. 


47 

The  earle  took  leave  of  Richard  the  king, 

And  into  the  west  wind  wou'd  he ; 
He  left  Bessye  in  Leicester  then 

And  bad  her  lye  in  pryvitye, 
For  if  King  Richard  knew  thee  here  anon, 

In  a  fire  burned  thou  must  be. 
Straight  to  Latham  the  earle  is  gone. 

There  as  the  Lord  Strange  then  lee ; 
He  sent  the  Lord  Strange  to  London, 

To  keep  King  Richard  company. 
Sir  WiUiam  Stanley  made  anone 

Ten  thousand  coats  readily, 
Which  were  as  redd  as  any  blood, 

Thereon  the  hart's  head  was  set  full  high. 
Which  after  were  tryed  both  trusty  and  good 

As  any  cou'd  be  in  Christantye. 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot  ten  thousand  doggs 

In  one  hour's  warning  for  to  be. 
And  Sir  John  Savage  fifteen  white  hoods. 

Which  wou'd  fight  and  never  flee ; 
Edward  Stanley  had  three  hundred  men. 

There  were  no  better  in  Christantye  ; 
Sir  Rees  ap  Thomas,  a  knight  of  Wales  certain. 

Eight  thousand  spears  brought  he. 


48 

Sir  William  Stanley  sat  in  the  Holt  Castle, 

And  looked  over  his  head  so  high ; 
Which  way  standeth  the  wind,  can  any  tell? 

I  pray  you,  my  men,  look  and  see. 
The  wind  it  standeth  south  east. 

So  said  a  knight  that  stood  him  by. 
This  night  yonder  prince,  truely 

Into  England  entereth  hee. 
He  called  a  gentleman  that  stood  him  nigh, 

His  name  was  Rowland  of  Warburton, 
He  bad  him  go  to  Shrewsbury  that  night. 

And  bid  yonder  prince  come  inn : 
But  when  Rowland  came  to  Shrewsbury 

The  portculles  was  let  downe ; 
They  called  him  Henry  Tydder,  in  scorn  truely. 

And  said  in  England  he  shou'd  wear  no  crowne; 
Rowland  bethought  him  of  a  wyle  then. 

And  tied  a  writeing  to  a  stone, 
And  threw  the  writeing  over  the  wall  certain. 

And  bad  the  bailiffs  to  look  it  upon : 
They  opened  the  gates  on  every  side, 

And  met  the  prince  with  procession ; 
And  wou'd  not  in  Shrewsbury  there  abide, 

But  straight  he  drest  him  to  Stafford  towne. 


49 

King  Richard  heard  then  of  his  comeing, 

He  called  his  lords  of  great  renowne ; 
The  Lord  Pearcy  he  came  to  the  king 

And  upon  his  knees  he  falleth  downe, 
I  have  thirty  thousand  fighting  men 

For  to  keep  the  crown  with  thee. 
The  Duke  of  Northfolk  came  to  the  king  anone, 

And  downe  he  falleth  upon  his  knee ; 
The  Earle  of  Surrey,  that  was  his  heir. 

Were  both  in  one  company ; 
We  have  either  twenty  thousand  men  here. 

For  to  keep  the  crown  with  thee. 
The  Lord  Latimer  and  the  Lord  Lovell, 

And  the  Earle  of  Kent  he  stood  him  by, 
The  Lord  Ross  and  the  Lord  Scrope,  I  you  tell. 

They  were  all  in  one  company ; 
The  Bishopp  of  Durham,  he  was  not  away, 

Sir  William  Bonner  he  stood  him  by, 
The  good  Sir  WiUiam  of  Harrington,  as  I  say. 

Said  he  would  fight  and  never  fly. 
King  Richard  made  a  messenger. 

And  sent  him  into  the  west  countrey. 
And  bid  the  Earle  of  Darby  make  him  bowne. 

And  bring  twenty  thousand  men  unto  me, 

T 


50 

Or  else  the  Lord  Strange  his  head  I  will  him 
send, 

And  doubtless  his  son  shall  dye ; 
For  hitherto  his  father  I  took  for  my  friend, 

And  now  he  hath  deceived  me. 
Another  herald  appeared  then 

To  Sir  Wilham  Stanley  that  doughty  knight, 
Bid  him  bring  to  me  ten  thousand  men. 

Or  else  to  death  he  shall  be  dight. 
Then  answered  that  doughty  knight, 

And  spake  to  the  herald  without  letting ; 
Say,  upon  Bosseworth  Field  I  meen  to  fight, 

Uppon  Monday  early  in  the  morning ; 
Such  a  breakfast  I  him  behight. 

As  never  did  knight  to  any  king. 
The  messenger  home  can  him  gett. 

To  tell  King  Richard  this  tydeing. 
Fast  together  his  hands  then  cou'd  he  ding. 

And  said,  the  Lord    Strange    shou'd  surely 
dye; 
And  putt  him  into  the  Tower  of  London, 

For  at  liberty  he  shou'd  not  bee. 
Lett  us  leave  Richard  and  his  lords  full  of  pride. 

And  talk  we  more  of  the  Stanleys'  blood. 


51 

That  brought  Richmond  over  the  sea  with  wind 
and  tyde, 

From  LitleBrittain  into  England  over  the  flood. 
Now  is  Earle  Richmond  into  Stafford  come, 

And  Sir  William  Stanley  to  Litle  Stoone ; 
The    prince  had   rather  then  all   the   gold    in 
Christantye, 

To  have  Sir  William  Stanley  to  look  upon : 
A  messenger  was  made  ready  anone, 

That  night  to  go  to  Litle  Stoon ; 
Sir  William  Stanley  he  rideth  to  Stafford  towne, 

With  a  solemn  company  ready  bowne. 
When  the  knight  to  Stafford  was  comin, 

That  Earle  Richmond  might  him  see, 
He  took  him  in  his  arms  then. 

And  there  he  kissed  him  times  three  ; 
The  welfare  of  thy  body  doth  comfort  me  more 

Then  all  the  gold  in  Christantye. 
Then  answered  that  royall  knight  there, 

And  to  the  prince  these  words  spake  he, — 
Remember,  man,  both  night  and  day, 

Wlio  doth  now  the  most  for  thee ; 
In  England  thou  shalt  wear  a  crown,  I  say, 

Or  else  doubtless  I  will  dye ; 


52 

A  fairer  lady  then  thou  shalt  have  for  thy  feer, 

Was  there  never  in  Christanty ; 
She  is  a  countesse,  a  king's  daughter, 

And  there  to  both  wise  and  witty ; 
I  must  this  night  to  Stone,  my  soveraigne. 

For  to  comfort  my  company. 
The  prince  he  took  him  by  the  hand, 

And  said,  farewell.  Sir  William,  fair  and  free. 
Now  is  word  come  to  Sir  William  Stanley  there. 

Early  in  the  Monday,  in  the  morning, 
That  the  Earle  of  Darby,  his  brother  dear, 

Hath  given  battle  to  Richard  the  king. 
That  wou'd  I  not,  said  Sir  William  anone. 

For  all  the  gold  in  Christantye, 
That  the  battle  shou'd  be  done ; 
Straight  to  Lichfield  cou'd  he  ride, 

In  all  the  hast  that  might  bee, 
And  when  he  came  to  Lichfield  that  tyde, 

All  they  cryed  King  Henry : 
Straight  to  Bolesworth  can  they  go 

In  all  the  hast  that  might  be. 
But  when  he  came  Bolesworth  Field  imto. 

There  met  a  royall  company ; 
The  Earle  of  Darby  thither  was  come. 


53 

And  twenty  thousand  stood  him  by ; 
Sir  John  Savage,  his  sister's  son, 

He  was  his  nephew  of  his  blood  so  nigh. 
He  had  fifteen  hundred  fighting  men, 

That  wou'd  fight  and  never  flye ; 
Sir  William  Stanley,  that  royall  knight,  then 

Ten  thousand  red  coats  had  he. 
They  wou'd  bicker  with  their  bows  there. 

They  wou'd  fight  and  never  flye ; 
The  Red  Rosse  and  the  Blew  Boar, 

They  were  both  a  solemn  company ; 
Sir  Rees  ap  Thomas  he  was  thereby, 

With  ten  thousand  spears  of  mighty  tree ; 
The  Earle  of  Richmond  went  to  the  Earle  of 
Darby, 

And  downe  he  falleth  upon  his  knee. 
Said,  father  Stanley,  full  of  might. 

The  vaward  I  pray  you  give  to  me. 
For  I  am  come  to  claime  my  right, 

And  faine  revenged  wou'd  I  bee. 
Stand  up,  he  said,  my  son,  quickly. 

Thou  hast  thy  mother's  blessing  truely, 
The  vaward,  son,  I  will  give  to  thee. 
So  that  thou  wilt  be  ordered  by  me  : 


54 

Sir  William  Stanley,  my  brother  dear, 

In  the  battle  he  shall  be ; 
Sir  John  Savage,  he  hath  no  peer. 

He  shall  be  a  wing  then  to  thee ; 
Sir  Rees  ap  Thomas  shall  break  the  array. 

For  he  will  fight  and  never  flee ; 
I  myselfe  will  hove  on  the  hill,  I  say, 

The  fair  battle  I  will  see. 
King  Richard  he  hoveth  upon  the  mountaine ; 

He  was  aware  of  the  banner  of  the  bould 
Stanley, 
And  saith.  Fetch  hither  the  Lord  Strange  certain, 

For  he  shall  dye  this  same  day ; 
To  the  death.  Lord,  thee  ready  make, 

For  I  tell  thee  certainly 
That  thou  shalt  dye  for  thy  uncle's  sake. 

Wild  William  of  Stanley. 
If  I  shall  dye,  said  the  Lord  Strange  then. 

As  God  forbid  it  shou'd  so  bee, 
Alas !  for  my  lady  that  is  at  home. 

It  should  be  long  or  she  see  me. 
But  we  shall  meet  at  doomsday. 

When  the  great  doom  shall  be. 
He  called  for  a  gent  in  good  fay. 


55 

Of  Lancashire,  both  fair  and  free, 

The  name  of  him  it  was  Lathum ; 
A  ring  of  goiild  he  took  from  his  finger, 

And  threw  it  to  the  gent  then. 
And  bad  him  bring  it  to  Lancashire, 

To  his  lady  that  was  at  home ; 
At  her  table  she  may  sit  right, 

Or  she  see  her  lord  it  may  be  long, 
I  have  no  foot  to  fligh  nor  fight, 

I  must  be  murdered  with  the  king : 
If  fortune  my  uncle  Sir  William  Stanley  loose 
the  field, 

As  God  forbid  it  shou'd  so  bee, 
Pray  her  to  take  my  eldest  son  and  child, 

And  exile  him  over  behind  the  sea ; 
He  may  come  in  another  time 

By  feild  or  fleet,  by  tower  or  towne. 
Wreak  so  he  may  his  father's  death  in  fyne. 

Upon  Richard  of  England  that  weareth  the 
crown. 
A  knight  to  King  Richard  then  did  appeare. 

The  good  Sir  William  of  Harrington. 
Let  that  lord  have  his  life,  my  dear 

Sir  king,  I  pray  you  grant  me  this  boone. 


56 

We  shall  have  upon  this  field  anon, 

The  father,  the  son,  and  the  uncle  all  three ; 
Then    shall   you   deem,  lord,    with   your    own 
mouth  then. 
What  shall  be  the  death  of  them  all  three. 
Then  a  block  was  cast  upon  the  ground. 

Thereon  the  lord's  head  was  laid, 
A  slave  over  his  head  can  stand. 

And  thus  that  time  to  him  thus  said : 
In  faith  there  is  no  other  booty  tho', 
But  need  that  thou  must  be  dead. 
Harrington  in  hart  was  full  woe. 

When  he  saw  that  the  lord  must  needs  be 
dead. 
He  said,  our  ray  breaketh  on  ev'ry  side, 

We  put  our  feyld  in  jepordie. . 
He  took  up  the  lord  that  tyde. 

King  Richard  after  did  him  never  see. 
Then  they  blew  up  their  bewgles  of  brass. 
That  made  many  a  wife  to  cry  alas ! 

And  many  a  wive's  child  fatherlesse ; 
They  shott  of  guns  then  very  fast. 

Over  their  heads  they  could  them  throw ; 
Arrows  flew  them  between. 


57 

As  thick  as  any  hayle  or  snowe. 

As  then  that  time  might  plaine  be  seene ; 
Then  Rees  ap  Thomas  with  the  black  raven, 

Shortly  he  break  their  array ; 
Then  with  thirty  thousand  fighting  men 

The  Lord  Pearcy  went  his  way ; 
The  Duke  of  Northefolke  wou'd  have  fledd  with 
a  good  will, 

With  twenty  thousand  of  his  company, 
They  went  up  to  a  wind  millne  uppon  a  hill, 

That  stood  soe  fayre  and  wonderousse  hye ; 
There    he    met    Sir    John   Savage,    a    royall 
knight. 

And  with  him  a  worthy  company; 
To  the  death  was  he  then  dight, 

And  his  sonne  prisoner  taken  was  he ; 
Then  the  Lord  Alroes  began  for  to  flee, 

And  so  did  many  other  moe ; 
When  King  Richard  that  sight  did  see, 

In  his  heart  hee  was  never  soe  woe : 
I  pray  you,  my  merry  men,  be  not  away. 

For  upon  this  field  will  I  like  a  man  dye. 
For  I  had  rather  dye  this  day, 

Then  with  the  Standley  prisoner  to  be. 

8 


58 

A  knight  to  King  Richard  can  say  there, 

Good  Sir  William  of  Harrington  ; 
He  said,  sir  king,  it  hathe  no  peer. 

Upon  this  feyld  to  death  to  be  done. 
For  there  may  no  man  these  dints  abide ; 

Low,  your  horse  is  ready  at  your  hand : 
Sett  the  crown  upon  my  head  that  tyde. 

Give  me  my  battle  axe  in  my  hand ; 
I  make  a  vow  to  myld  Mary  that  is  so  bright, 

I  will  dye  the  king  of  merry  England. 
Besides  his  head  they  hewed  the  crown  down 
right. 

That  after  he  was  not  able  to  stand ; 
They  dinge  him  downe  as  they  were  woode. 

They  beat  his  bassnet  to  his  heade. 
Until  the  braynes  came  out  with  the  bloode ; 

They  never  left  him  till  he  was  dead. 
Then  carryed  they  him  to  Leicester, 

And  pulled  his  head  under  his  feet. 
Bessye  mett  him  with  a  merry  cheare, 

And  with  these  words  she  did  him  greete ; 
How    like  you  the    killing    of   my  brethren 
dear? 

Welcome,  gentle  uncle,  home  ! 


59 

Great  solace  ytt  was  to  see  and  hear, 

When  the  battell  yt  was  all  done ; 
I  tell  you,  masters,  without  lett, 

When  the  Red  Rosse  soe  fair  of  hew, 
And  young  Bessye  together  mett, 

It  was  great  joy  I  say  to  you. 
A  bishopp  them  marryed  with  a  ringe 

The  two  bloods  of  great  renowne. 
Bessy  said,  now  may  we  singe. 

Wee  two  bloods  are  made  all  one. 
The  Earle  of  Darby  bee  was  there. 

And  Sir  William  Stanley,  that  noble  knight, 
Upon  their  heads  he  set  the  crown  so  fair. 

That  was  made  of  gould  so  bright. 
And  there  he  came  under  a  cloud. 

That  some  time  in  England  looked  full  high ; 
But  then  the  hart  he  lost  his  head. 

That  after  no  man  cou'd  him  see. 
But  Jesus,  that  is  both  bright  and  shine. 

And  born  was  of  mylde  Mary, 
Save  and  keepe  our  noble  kinge. 

And  also  the  poore  commentie.         Amen. 


60 


II.— OF  THE  PRINCESSE  ELIZABETH, 

After  Wife  of  King  Henry  VII. 

OD  that  is  moste  of  myghte, 

And  borne  was  of  a  mayden  free, 
Save  and  kepe  our  comlye  queene. 
And  also  the  poore  comynahtie ; 
For  wheras  Kynge  Richard,  I  understande, 

Had  not  reigned  yeares  three, 
But  the  beste  Duke  in  all  this  lande 

He  caused  to  be  headit  at  Salysburye ; 
That  tyme  the  Standleyes  without  dowte 

Were  dred  over  England  ferre  and  nee. 
Next  Kynge  Richard  that  was  soe  stowte 

Of  any  lorde  in  England  free. 
There  was  a  ladye  faire  on  moulde, 

The  name  of  hir  was  htill  Bessie ; 
She  was  yonge,  she  was  not  oulde, 

Bot  of  the  yeares  of  one  and  twentye  ; 
She  colde  wryte  and  she  coulde  reede, 

Well  she  coulde  wyrke  by  propesye ; 
She  sojorned  in  the  cetye  of  London 

That  tyme  with  the  Earle  of  Derbye. 


61 

Upon  a  tyme,  as  I  you  tell, 

There  was  noe  moe  hot  the  Earle  and  she, 
She  made  complaynte  one  Richard  the  Kynge, 

That  was  hir  uncle  of  blode  soe  nee. 
Helpe,  father  Standley,  I  doe  you  praye. 

For  of  Kynge  Richard  wroken  will  I  bee  ; 
He  dyd  my  brethren  to  the  deathe  on  a  daye, 

In  their  bed  where  they  did  lye ; 
He  drowned  them  both  in  a  pype  of  wyne, 

Yt  was  dole  to  heare  and  see ! 
And  he  woulde  putt  awaye  his  Q,ueene, 

For  to  have  lyen  by  my  bodye ! 
Helpe  that  he  were  putt  awaye. 

For  the  royall  bloude  destroy  will  bee : 
Buckingham  that  Duke  of  England         [are  ye  ; 

Was  as  great  with  Kynge  Richard  as  nowe 
The  crowne  of  England  ther  tooke  he, 

Forsoothe,  Lorde,  this  is  noe  lye. 
And  crowned  Kynge  Richard  of  England  free. 

That  after  beheadit  him  in  Salisburye. 
Helpe,  father  Standley,  I  doe  you  praye, 

For  on  that  tray  tour  wroken  wolde  I  bee, 
And  helpe  Earle  Richmonde,  that  prynce  gaye. 

That  is  exiled  over  the  seae ; 


62 

For  and  he  were  Kynge  I  shoulde  be  Queene, 

I  doe  hym  love  and  never  hym  see ; 
Thenke  on  Edward  my   father    that   late   was 
Kynge, 

Upon  his  death-bed  where  he  did  lye. 
Of  a  litill  child  he  putt  me  to  the 

For  to  governe  and  to  guyde  : 
Into  your  keping  he  putt  me, 

And  lafte  me  a  booke  of  prophesy e. 
I  have  yt  in  keping  in  this  cetye ; 

He  knewe  that  ye  mighte  make  me  a  Queene, 
Father,  if  thy  will  it  bee ; 

For  Richard  is  noe  rightwyse  Kynge, 
Ner  upon  noe  woman  borne  was  he : 

The  royall  blode  of  all  this  lande, 
Richard,  myne  uncle,  will  destroy, 

As  he  did  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
Which  was  as  great  with  Kynge  Richard  as  nowe 
are  yee. 

For  when  he  was  Duke  of  Gloseter, 
He  slewe  good  Kynge  Henry 

In  the  Tower  of  London  as  he  laye  there. 
Sir  William  Standley,  this  brother  dere, 

In  the  holte  where  he  dothe  lye. 


63 

He  may  make  ten  thowsand  fighting  men  in  fere, 

And  give  them  wages  for  monthes  three ; 
Your  Sonne  George,  the  Lord  Straunge, 

In  Lathum  where  he  doth  lye. 
He  may  make  fyve  thowsand  fighting  men 

By  the  marryage  of  his  faire  ladye  ; 
Edward  Standley,  that  is  thy  sonne, 

Three  hundreth  men  may  brynge  to  the ; 
Thy  sonne  Jamys,  that  yonge  preeste. 

Warden  of  Manchester  was  made  latlye ; 
Sir  John  Savage,  thy  sisters  sonne. 

He  is  thy  sisters  sonne  of  blode  so  neighe, 
He  may  make  fiftene  hundreth  fighting  men. 

And  all  his  men  white  hoodes  doe  give ; 
He  giveth  the  pickes  on  his  banners  brighte. 

Upon  a  feilde  never  backed  was  hee ; 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  a  man  of  myghte, 

In  Sheaffelde  Castyll  where  he  doth  lye. 
He  may  make  ten  thowsand  men  of  myghte. 

And  give  them  wages  for  monthes  three, 
And  thy  selfe  ten  thowsand  eigle  feete  to  fighte. 

That  is  a  goodlye  sighte  to  see ! 
For  thou  and  thyne,  withouten  pyne. 

May  brynge  Richmonde  over  the  seae. 


64 

For  and  he  were  Kynge  I  shulde  be  Queene, 

Father  Standley,  remember  me ! 
Then  answered  the  earle  agayne, 

These  were  the  wordes  he  said  to  Bessye, 
And  Kynge  Richard  knewe  this  then, 

We  were  undone,  both  thou  and  I, 
In  a  fyer  thou  muste  brenne. 

My  lyfe  and  land  is  loste  from  me, 
Therfore  theis  wordes  be  in  vayne, 

Leave  and  doe  awaye,  good  Bessye  I 
Father  Standley,  is  there  noe  grace, 

Noe  Queene  of  England  that  I  moste  be  ? 
Then  Bessye  stoode  styding  in  that  place 

With  teares  trickelling  from  hir  eyne. 
Nowe  I  knowe  I  muste  never  be  dueene, — 

AU  this,  man,  is  longe  on  the ! 
But  thinke  upon  the  dreadfuU  daye. 

When  the  greate  dome  yt  shall  be ; 
When  ryghteousnes  on  the  raynbowe  shall  sytt, 

And  all  denie  he  shall  bothe  the  and  me. 
And  all  falshed  awaye  shall  flytt. 

When  all  truthe  shall  by  hym  bee. 
I  care  not  wheder  I  hange  or  drawe. 

So  that  my  sowle  saved  may  bee  ; 


65 

Made  gude  answere  as  thou  may, 

For  all  this,  man,  is  longe  on  the. 
With  that  shee  tooke  hir  head  gere  downe, 

And  did  it  throwe  upon  the  grounde. 
With  pearles  and  meny  a  pretious  stone. 

That  were  better  then  fowertye  pounde ; 
Hir  faxe  that  was  as  fyne  as  silcke 

Shortlye  downe  she  dyd  yt  rent ; 
With  hir  handes  as  whyte  as  mylke 

Hir  faire  faxe  thus  hath  he  spilte ! 
Hir  handes  together  can  she  wrynge, 

And  with  teares  she  wypes  hir  eyne, 
Wel-a-waye  Bessye  can  she  synge. 

And  parted  with  the  Earle  of  Derbye. 
Farewell,  man,  nowe  am  I  gon, 

Yt  shall  be  longe  or  thou  me  see ! 
The  earle  stoode  still  as  any  stone. 

And  all  blencked  was  his  blee ; 
When  he  hard  Bessye  make  suche  mone, 

The  teares  fell  downe  from  his  eye, — 
Abide,  Bessye,  we  parte  not  soe  sowne, 

I  wene  here  is  noe  moe  but  thou  and  I. 
Feilde  hath  eyne  and  wodde  hath  cares. 

You  can  not  tell  who  standeth  us  bye, 

9 


66 

But  wende  forthe,  Bessie,  to  thy  bower, 

And  looke  thou  doe  as  I  bid  the : 
Putt  awaye  thy  maydens  bryghte, 

That  noe  person  there  with  us  bee, 
For  at  nyne  of  the  clocke  with  in  this  nyghte 

In  thy  bower  will  I  be  with  the. 
Then  of  this  matter  we  will  carpe  more. 

When  there  is  noe  moe  but  thou  and  I. 
A  charcoole  fyer  at  my  desyre 

That  noe  smoke  come  in  our  eye. 
Feces  of  wyne  many  a  one. 

And  dyvers  spices  be  therbye. 
Pen,  yncke,  and  paper,  loke  thou  want  none, 

But  have  all  thinges  full  ready e. 
Bessye  made  hir  busynes  and  forthe  is  gone, 

And  tooke  hir  leave  at  the  Earle  of  Darbie, 
And  putt  awaye  hir  maydens  anon, 

IMoe  man  nor  may  den  was  there  nye. 
A  charcoale  fyer  was  readye  bowne. 

There  came  noe  smoke  with  in  his  eye, 
Peces  of  wyne  mony  a  one, 

Dyvers  spices  did  lye  therbye, 
Pen,  yncke,  and  paper,  there  wanted  none, 
Shee  had  all  thinges  there  full  readye, 


67 

And  sett  hirselfe  upon  a  stone, 

Withouten  any  companye. 
She  tooke  a  booke  in  hir  hande, 

And  there  did  reede  of  prophesy e, 
Howe  she  shoulde  be  Queene  in  England, 

But  mony  a  guyltles  man  firste  moste  dye ; 
And  as  she  red  faster  she  wepte, 

And  with  that  came  the  Earle  of  Derbye, 
At  nyne  of  the  clocke  within  the  nyghte 

To  Bessie's  bower  cometh  hee. 
Shee  barred  the  doore  above  and  under, 

That  noe  man  shoulde  come  them  nee ; 
She  sett  hym  on  a  seate  soe  riche, 

And  on  an  other  she  sett  hir  bye : 
She  gave  hym  wyne,  she  gave  hym  spice. 

Said,  blend  in,  father,  and  drynke  to  me. 
The  fyer  was  hoote,  the  spyce  it  boote. 

The  wyne  it  wroughte  wunderouslye : 
Then  full  kynde  in  harte,  God  wott. 

Waxed  the  oulde  Earle  of  Derbye  : — 
Aske  nowe,  Bessye,  what  thou  wilte, 

And  nowe  thy  boune  graunted  shall  be. 
Noe  thinge,  sayd  Bessye,  I  woulde  have, 

Neyther  of  goulde  nor  yett  of  fee. 


68 

But  faire  Earle  Richmonde,  soe  God  me  save ! 

That  hath  lyen  soe  longe  beyonde  the  seae. 
Alas,  Bessye,  said  that  nowble  lorde, 

And  thy  boune  for  sothe  graunte  wolde  I  the, 
But  there  is  noe  clarke  that  I  doe  truste 

This  nyghte  to  wryte  for  the  and  me, 
Because  our  matter  is  soe  highe, 

Leaste  any  man  woulde  us  bewraye. — 
Bessie  said,  father,  yt  shall  not  neede, 

I  am  a  clarke  full  good  I  say. 
She  drue  a  paper  upon  her  knee. 

Pen  and  yncke  she  had  full  ready e, 
Handes  white  and  fingers  longe. 

She  dressed  hir  to  wryte  full  spedelye. 
Father  Standley,  nowe  lett  me  see. 

For  enie  worde  wryte  shall  I ; — 
Bessye,  make  a  letter  to  the  houlte, 

Wheras  my  brother  Sir  William  dothe  lye, 
Byd  hym  brynge  seaven  sad  yeomen. 

All  in  grene  clothes  lett  them  be, 
And  chaunge  his  inne  in  everie  towne 

Where  before  he  was  wonte  to  lye. 
And  lett  his  face  be  towarde  the  benche, 

Leaste  that  any  man  sholde  hym  spye ; 


69 

And  by  the  thirde  day  of  Maye, 

That  he  come  and  speake  with  me. 
Commend  me  to  my  sonne  George, 

The  Lorde  Strange,  where  he  doth  lye, 
And  byd  hym  bringe  seaven  sad  yeomen. 

All  in  grene  clothes  lett  them  bee. 
And  lett  him  selfe  be  in  the  same  sute, 

Chaunging  his  inne  in  everie  towne. 
And  lett  his  backe  be  froe  the  benche, 

Leaste  any  man  shoulde  hym  knowe ; 
And  by  the  thirde  day  of  Maye, 

Byd  hym  come  and  speake  with  me. 
Commend  me  unto  Edward  my  sonne, 

The  warden  and  he  together  bee. 
And  byd  them  brynge  seaven  sad  yeomen. 

And  all  in  grene  lett  them  bee, 
Chaunginge  their  inne  in  everie  towne, 

Before  where  they  were  wonte  to  be ; 
Lett  their  backes  be  from  the  benche, 

Leaste  any  man  shoulde  them  see. 
And  by  the  thirde  day  of  Maye 

Byd  them  come  and  speake  with  me. 
Commend  [me]  to  Sir  John  Savage,  [trye. 

And  Sir  Gilbert  Talbott,  in  the  northe  cown- 


70 

Byd  them  brynge  eyther  of  them  seaven  sad 
yeomen. 

And  all  in  grene  lett  them  bee, 
Chaunging  their  inne  in  everie  towne. 

Before  where  they  were  wonte  to  be ; 
And  by  the  thirde  day  of  Maye 

Byd  them  come  and  speake  with  me. 
Bessy e  wryteth,  the  lorde  he  sealleth, — 

Father  Standley,  what  will  you  more  ? 
Alas,  said  that  royall  lorde, 

All  our  wyrke  yt  is  forlore, 
For  there  is  noe  messenger  whom  we  may  truste 

To  brynge  the  tythandes  to  the  northe  coun- 
trye, 
Leaste  any  man  woulde  us  betray, 

Because  our  matter  is  soe  bye. 
Humfrey  Breerton,  said  litill  Bessie, 

He  hath  bene  true  to  my  father  and  me, 
He  shall  have  the  writynges  in  hande, 

And  brynge  them  into  the  northe  country e. 
Goe  to  thy  bed,  father,  and  sleepe. 

And  I  shall  wake  for  the  and  me ; 
To-morrowe  by  rysing  of  the  sonne 

Humfrey  Breerton  shall  be  with  the. 


71 

She  broughte  the  lorde  unto  his  bed 

All  that  nyghte  where  he  shoulde  lye, 
And  Bessie  waketh  all  the  nyghte, 

There  came  noe  sleepe  within  hir  eye. 
In  the  mornyng  when  the  daye  can  sprynge 

Up  ryseth  Bessie  in  that  stowre, 
To  Humfrey  Breerton  gon  she  ys. 

But  when  she  came  to  Humfreyes  bowre. 
With  a  smale  voyce  caled  shee. 

Humfrey  answered  that  ladye  brighte. 
And  saith,  ladye,  whoe  are  ye. 

That  caleth  on  me  yer  yt  be  lighte  ? 
I  am  Kynge  Edwardes  doughter. 

The  Countes  cleare,  yonge  Bessie ; 
In  aU  the  haste  that  thou  can,  [Derbye. 

Thou  moste  come  speake  with  the  Earle  of 
Humfrey  caste  upon  him  a  gowne, 

A  paire  of  slippers  upon  his  feete, 
Forthe  of  his  chamber  then  he  comme, 

And  went  forthe  with  that  ladye  sweete. 
She  broughte  hym  to  the  bed  syde 

Where  the  lorde  lay  in  bed  to  sleepe. 
When  the  earle  Humfrey  did  see, 

Full  tenderlye  then  can  he  weepe ; 


72 

And  sayd,  my  love,  my  truste,  my  lyve,  and  land, 

All  this,  Humfrey,  doth  lye  in  the  : 
Thou  may  make  and  thou  may  marre. 

Thou  may  undoe  Bessie  and  me ! 
Take  sixe  letters  in  thjne  hande. 

And  brynge  them  into  the  northe  cowntrye. 
They  be  wrytten  on  the  back  syde 

Where  the  letters  levered  shall  be. 
He  receaved  the  letters  sixe, 

Into  the  weste  wynde  wolde  he ; 
Then  meteth  hym  that  ladye  brighte. 

She  said,  abide,  Humfrey,  and  speake  with  me. 
A  poore  rewarde  I  shall  the  gyve, 

Yt  shall  be  but  poundes  three  ; 
Yf  I  be  Queene  and  may  lyve. 

Better  rewarded  shall  thou  be  : 
A  litill  witt  God  hath  sent  me. 

When  thou  rydest  into  the  weste, 
I  pray  the  take  noe  companye 

But  such  as  shall  be  of  the  beste ; 
Sytt  not  to  longe  dryncking  the  wyne, 

Leaste  in  harte  thou  be  to  merrye, 
Suche  wordes  thou  may  caste  out  then 

The  other  morrowe  forthoughte  may  bee. 


73 

Humfrey  at  Bessye  receaved  nowbles  nyne, 

With  a  peece  of  wyne  she  coulde  him  assaye, 
He  tooke  leave  of  that  ladye  sheene, 

And  streight  to  the  houlte  he  toke  the  way. 
When  Sir  Wilham  Standley  did  him  see, 

He  said  to  him  with  wordes  free, 
Humfrey  Breerton,  what  maketh  thou  here, 

That  hither  doste  ryde  soe  hastelye  ? 
How  fareth  that  lorde  my  brother  dere, 

That  latlye  was  made  the  Earle  of  Derbye  ? 
Is  he  dead  without  letting — 

Or  with  Kynge  Richard  what  consayte  is  he  ? 
Or  he  be  suspecte  withouten  lett, 

Or  takyn  into  the  towre  soe  hee? 
London  yates  shall  tremble  and  quake, 

But  my  brother  borrowed  shall  be ! 
Tell  me,  Humfrey,  withouten  lett, 

That  hither  rydeth  soe  hastelye. 
Breake  letter,  said  Humfrey  then, 

Behoulde,  sir,  and  yee  may  see. 
Wlien  the  knyghte  the  letter  loked  on. 

He  stoode  still  in  a  studyinge, 

Answere  to  Humfrey  he  gave  none. 

But  still  he  gneve  on  his  stafFe  end. 

10 


74 

He  plucked  the  letter  in  peeces  three, 

Into  the  water  he  coulde  yt  slynge ; 
Have  here,  Humfray,  said  the  knyghte, 

I  wyll  the  gyve  an  hundreth  shillinge ; 
Thou  shalte  not  tarye  here  all  nyghte, 

Streighte  to  Lathum  ryde  shall  yee. 
Alas,  said  Humfrey,  I  may  not  ryde, 

My  horsse  is  tyred,  as  ye  may  see : 
I  came  from  London  in  this  tyde. 

There  came  noe  slepe  within  myne  eye. 
Lay  the  downe,  Humfrey,  he  said,  and  sleepe 

Well  the  space  of  howres  three, 
A  freshe  horsse,  I  the  behette. 

Shall  brynge  the  throughe  the  northe  cowntrye. 
Humfrey  sleeped  but  howres  two, 

But  on  his  jorney  well  thoughte  he  ; 
A  freshe  horsse  was  broughte  him  to, 

To  brynge  throughe  the  weste  cowntrye. 
He  toke  his  leave  at  the  knyghte. 

And  streighte  to  Lathum  rydeth  he. 
At  nyne  of  the  clocke  within  the  nyghte 

At  Lathum  yates  knocketh  he  : 
The  porter  ryseth  anonrighte. 

And  answereth  Humfrey  with  wordes  free, — 


75 

In  good  faithe,  yt  is  to  late 

To  calle  on  me  this  tyme  of  the  nyghte. 
I  praye  thee,  porter,  open  the  gate, 

And  lett  me  in  anonrighte ; 
With  the  Lorde  Strange  I  muste  speake. 

From  his  father,  the  Earle  of  Derbye. 
The  porter  opened  up  the  gates. 

And  in  came  his  horsse  and  hee. 
The  beste  wyne  that  was  therin 

To  Humfrey  Breerton  furthe  broughte  hee. 
With  torches  brennynge  at  that  tyde, 

And  other  hghte,  that  he  myghte  see. 
And  broughte  hym  downe  unto  the  bed  syde, 

Wheras  the  Lorde  Strange  laye  ; 
The  lorde  he  mused  in  that  tyde, 

And  said,  Humfrey,  what  haste  thou  to  saye? 
How  fareth  my  father  that  nowble  lorde, 

In  all  England  he  hath  noe  peare? 
Humfrey  tooke  a  letter  in  his  hande, 

And  said,  behoulde  and  ye  maye  here. 
When  the  Lorde  Strange  loked  the  letter  upon, 

The  teares  trickeled  downe  his  eye  ; 
He  said,  we  muste  [come]  under  a  clodde, 

For  we  muste  never  trusted  bee. 


76 

We  may  sike  and  make  great  monne. 

This  worlde  is  not  as  yt  wolde  be : 
Commende  [me]  to  my  father  dere, 

His  dayhe  blessinge  he  wolde  give  me ; 
For  and  I  lyve  an  other  yeare, 

This  appoyntment  keepe  will  I. 
He  receaved  golde  of  my  Lorde  Strange, 

And  streighte  to  Manchester  rydeth  hee. 
And  when  he  came  to  Manchester, 

It  was  pryme  of  the  day. 
He  was  ware  of  the  warden  and  Edward  Standley 

Togeder  their  mattens  for  to  say; 
The  one  brother  said  to  the  other, 

Behoulde,  brother,  and  you  may  se, 
Here  cometh  Humfrey  Breerton, 

Some  hastye  thythandes  bringeth  hee. 
He  tooke  eyther  a  letter  in  their  handes. 

And  bad  them  looke  and  behoulde, 
And  reede  they  did  those  letters  radlye. 

And  up  the  leape  and  laughed  lowde ; 
And  said,  faire  fall  our  father  that  nowble  lorde, 

To  stirre  and  ryse  begynnethe  hee ; 
Bockingham  blode  shall  be  wroken 

That  was  headed  at  Salisburye  ! 


11 

Faire  fall  the  Cowntas  the  Kynges  doughter, 

That  such  cownsell  gyve  coulde  shee, 
We  truste  in  God  soe  full  of  mighte 

To  brynge  hir  lorde  over  the  seae. 
Have  here,  Humfrey,  of  eyther  fortye  shillmges, 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  bee. 
He  tooke  the  golde  at  their  hande, 

And  to  Sir  John  Savage  rydeth  hee ; 
And  he  tooke  hym  a  letter  in  his  hande, 

And  bad  hym  behoulde,  reede,  and  see. 
When  the  knyghte  the  letter  loked  upon. 

Then  all  blencked  was  his  blee, — 
Wemens  wytt  is  wonder  to  heare, 

Myne  uncle  is  turned  by  you,  Bessie, 
And  wheder  yt  turne  to  wayle  or  woe, 

At  myne  uncles  byddinge  I  will  bee ! 
Have  here,  Humfrey,  fortye  shillinges. 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  be. 
To  Scheffelde  castyll  looke  thou  ryde 

In  all  the  haste  that  may  bee. 
Furthe  then  rydeth  that  gentyll  knyghte. 

Sir  Gilbert  Talbott  then  fyndeth  hee, 
He  toke  hym  a  letter  in  his  hande. 

And  bad  hym  reede,  and  he  mighte  see. 


78 

When  Sir  Gilbert  the  letter  loked  on, 

A  lowde  loughter  laughed  hee  ; 
Faire  fall  that  lorde  of  riche  renowne, 

To  stirre  and  ryse  no  we  begynneth  he. 
Faire  fall  Bessie,  that  cowntas  cleare. 

That  such  counsell  giveth  trulye ! 
Commend  me  to  my  nephewe  dere. 

The  yonge  Earle  of  Schrewesburye ; 
Byd  hym  never  dread  for  noe  deathe, 

In  London  towre  yf  he  bee, 
I  shall  make  London  to  tremble  and  quake, 

But  my  nephewe  borrowed  shall  bee ; 
Commend  me  to  that  Cowntas  cleare, 

Kynge  Edwardes  doughter,  yonge  Bessie, 
Tell  hir  I  truste  in  God  that  hath  noe  peare 

To  brynge  hir  love  over  the  seae ; 
Commend  me  to  that  lorde  withouten  drede, 

That  latlye  was  made  the  Earle  of  Derbye, 
And  everie  heare  of  my  heade 

For  a  man  mighte  counted  bee. 
With  that  lorde,  withouten  drede. 

With  hym  will  I  ly ve  and  dye ! 
Have  here,  Humfrey,  poundes  three. 

Better  rewarded  may  thou  bee ; 


79 

Streighte  to  London  loke  thou  ryde 

In  all  the  haste  that  may  bee. 
Commend  me  to  the  Cowntas,  yonge  Bessye, 

Kynge  Edwardes  doughter  forsothe  is  shee ; 
In  all  this  lande  she  hath  noe  peare. 

Thus  he  taketh  his  leave  at  the  knyghte, 
And  streighte  to  Loudon  rydeth  hee. 

And  when  he  came  to  London  righte, 
Yt  was  but  a  litill  before  evenynge, 

There  was  he  ware,  walking  in  a  garden  greene, 
Bothe  the  Earle  and  Richard  our  Kynge ; 

When  the  Earle  had  Humfrey  seane. 
He  gave  hym  a  pryve  twyncke  with  his  eye, 

Then  Humfrey  came  before  the  Kynge  soe  free, 
And  downe  he  falleth  upon  his  knee ; 

Welcome,  Humfrey,  said  the  Earle  of  Derbye, 
Wliere  haste  thou  bene,  Humfrey,  said  the  Earle, 

For  I  have  myssed  the  weekes  three. 
I  have  bene  in  the  weste,  my  lorde. 

Where  I  was  borne  and  bredde  trulye, 
For  to  sporte  me  and  to  playe 

Amongest  my  frendes  fer  and  nye. 
Tell  me,  Humfrey,  said  the  Earle, 

Howe  fareth  all  in  that  cowntrye  ? 


80 

Tell  me,  Humfrey,  I  the  praye, 

Howe  fareth  Kynge  Richardes  comynaltye? 
Off  all  countryes  I  dare  well  saye, 

They  bene  the  cheefe  of  archerye, 
For  they  will  be  trustye  with  their  bowes, 

And  they  will  fighte  and  never  flee. 
When  Kynge  Richard  harde  Humfrey  soe  say, 

In  his  harte  he  was  full  merye ; 
With  his  cappe  that  was  soe  deare 

He  thanked  that  lorde  full  courteslye. 
And  said,  father  Standley,  thou  art  to  me  nere. 

You  are  cheefe  of  your  comynaltye  ; 
Halfe  of  England  shall  be  thyne, 

And  equallye  devyded  betwene  the  and  me, 
I  am  thyne  and  thou  arte  myne. 

And  soe  two  fellowes  wyll  we  bee ; 
I  sweare  by  Marye  may  den  mylde, 

I  knowe  none  suche  under  the  skye ; 
Whiles  I  be  Kynge  and  weare  the  crowne, 

I  will  be  cheefe  of  the  comynaltye. 
Taske  ne  myse  I  will  make  none. 

In  noe  cowntrye  farre  nor  nere,  [downe, 

For  yf  by  their  goodes  I  shoulde  plucke  them 

For  me  they  woulde  fyghte  fuU  faynteslye. 


81 

There  is  noe  riches  to  me  so  riche, 

As  is  the  poore  corny naltye. 
When  they  had  ended  all  their  speeche, 

They  tooke  their  leave  full  gladlye. 
And  to  his  bowre  the  Kynge  is  gone. 

Then  the  Earle  and  Humfrey  Breerton 
To  Bessies  bowre  they  went  anon, 

And  founde  Bessy e  there  alone. 
When  Bessie  did  see  Humfrey  anon. 

She  kyssed  hym  tymes  three, 
Saithe,  Humfrey  Brerton,  welcome  home ! 

Howe  haste  thou  spede  in  the  Weste  Cowntrye  ? 
Into  a  parlour  they  went  anon. 

There  was  noe  moe  but  he  and  shee : 
Humfrey,  tell  me  or  I  hence  gone 

Somme  tythandes  out  of  the  Weste  Cowntrye ; 
Yf  I  shoulde  send  for  yonder  Prynce 

To  come  over  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  murthered  by  his  foes  to  be, 

Alas  that  were  full  great  petye ; 
Forsothe  that  sighte  I  woulde  not  see 

For  all  the  goulde  in  Christentye ! 
Tell  me,  Humfrey,  I  the  praye, 

How  thou  haste  donne  in  the  Weste  Cowntrye. 

11 


82 

Unto  Bessie  anon  he  toulde, 

Howe  he  had  sped  in  the  Weste  Cowntrye, 
What  was  the  answere  he  of  them  had, 

And  what  rewardes  he  had  truly e. 
By  the  thirde  day  of  Maye,  Bessie,  he  said. 

In  London  there  will  they  bee. 
Thou  shalte  in  England  be  a  queene, 

Or  ells  douteles  they  will  dye. 
Thus  they  provided  for  the  wynter  tyme 

Their  eounsell  for  to  keepe  all  three. 
The  Earle  woulde  not  in  London  abyde. 

For  whye — he  wroughte  by  prophesye  ; 
But  in  the  suburbes  without  the  cetye 

An  ould  inne  chossen  hath  bee, 
And  drewe  an  eigle  upon  the  entrye. 

That  the  westeren  men  myghte  yt  see. 
Humfrey  stoode  in  a  highe  tower. 

And  loked  into  the  Weste  Countrye, 
Sir  William  Standley  and  seaven  in  grene 

Came  ryding  streighte  into  the  cetye. 
When  he  was  ware  of  the  eigle  drawen, 

He  drewe  hym  selfe  wunderous  nye. 
And  bad  his  men  goe  into  the  towne. 

And  drynke  the  wyne  and  make  merry e. 


83 

Into  the  inne  where  the  eigle  did  hee 

Forsothe  shortlye  is  he  gon. 
Humfrey  loked  into  the  Weste, 

And  sawe  the  Lorde  Straunge  and  seaven  come 
Ryding  in  grene  into  the  cetye ; 

When  he  was  ware  of  the  oulde  eigle  drawen, 
He  drewe  himselfe  wunderous  nye, 

And  bad  his  men  goe  into  the  towne. 
And  drynke  the  wyne  and  make  good  cheare, 

And  whereever  they  come  noe  coste  to  spare  : 
Then  to  the  inne  where  his  father  laye 

He  drewe  hymselfe  wunderous  neare. 
Humfrey  loked  more  into  the  weste, 

Sixteene  in  grene  did  he  see, 
The  warden  and  Sir  Edward  Standley 

Came  ryding  both  in  companye ; 
There  as  the  eagle  was  drawen, 

The  gentylmen  drewe  yt  nye. 
And  bad  their  men  goe  into  the  towne. 

And  drynke  the  wyne  and  make  merye ; 
And  went  into  the  same  inne, 

Where  the  earle  their  father  lee. 
Yett  Humfrey  behouldeth  into  the  weste, 

And  loked  towardes  the  northe  cowntrye ; 


84 

He  was  ware  of  Sir  John  Savage  and  Sir  Gilbert 

Came  rydinge  bothe  in  companye ;    [Talbotte, 
When  they  were  ware  of  the  eigle  drawen, 

Then  they  drewe  themselves  wunderous  nye, 
And  bad  their  men  goe  into  the  towne. 

And  drynke  the  wyne  and  make  merye, 
And  yende  themselves  into  the  inne, 

Where  the  earle  and  Bessie  lee. 
When  all  the  lordes  togeder  mette, 

Among  them  all  was  litill  Bessie ; 
With  gudlye  wurdes  shee  can  them  grete, 

And  said,  lordes  wyll  ye  doe  for  me  ? 
What  wyll  ye  releave  yonder  prynce, 

That  is  exiled  beyonde  the  seae  ? 
The  Earle  of  Derbye  came  forthe  then, 

Theis  were  the  wordes  he  said  to  Bessie : 
Fourtye  pound  wyll  I  send, 

Bessie,  for  the  love  of  the. 
And  xx.tie  thowsand  eigle  feete, 

A  Q,ueene  of  England  to  make  the. 
Sir  William  Standley  came  forthe  then, 

Theis  were  the  woirdes  he  said  to  Bessie, 
Rememer,  Bessie,  another  tyme, 

Whoe  dothe  nowe  the  beste  for  the  ; 


85 

Ten  thowsand  coates  that  bene  read 

In  an  owres  warnyng  readye  shall  bee ; 
In  England  thou  shalte  be  queene, 

Or  ells  dowteles  I  will  dye. 
Sir  John  Savage  came  forthe  then, 

Theis  were  the  wurdes  he  said  to  Bessie, 
Ten  thousand  markes  for  thy  sake 

I  will  send  thy  love  beyonde  the  seae. 
The  Lorde  Strange  came  forth  then, 

Theis  were  the  wurdes  he  said  to  Bessie, 
A  lytill  money  and  fewe  men 

WyU  brynge  thy  love  over  the  seae ; 
Lett  us  keepe  our  goulde  at  home. 

For  to  wage  our  companye ; 
Yf  we  yt  sende  over  the  foame. 

We  putt  our  goulde  in  joperdye. 
Edward  Standley  came  furthe  then, 

Theis  were  the  wurdes  he  said  to  Bessie ; 
Rememer,  Bessie,  another  tyme, 

He  that  nowe  dothe  beste  for  the ; 
For  ther  is  nowe  noe  power  that  I  have, 

Nor  noe  goulde  for  to  gyve  the, 
But  under  my  father's  banner  wyll  I  fyghte 

Eyther  for  to  lyve  or  dye. 


86 

Bessye  came  fortlie  before  the  lordes  all, 

And  upon  hir  knees  then  fallethe  she, 
Ten  thowsand  pounde  I  wyll  hym  sende 

Even  to  my  love  beyonde  the  seae. 
Whoe  shall  be  our  messenger  then, 

To  brynge  our  goulde  over  the  seae  ? 
Humfrey  Breerton,  said  litill  Bessie, 

I  knowe  non  soe  good  as  hee. 
Alas,  said  Humfrey,  I  dare  not  take  in  hande 

To  earye  the  goulde  over  the  seae ; 
The  galley  shippes  the  be  soe  stronge. 

They  wyll  me  neighe  wunderous  nee  -, 
They  wyll  me  robbe,  they  will  me  drowne. 

They  wyll  take  the  goulde  from  me. 
Houlde  thy  peace,  Humfrey,  said  litill  Bessie, 

Thou  shalte  yt  carye  out  of  joperdye. 
Thou  shalte  have  noe  basked  nor  noe  mayle, 

Noe  bothed  ner  clothe  sacke  shall  goe  with  the; 
Three  mules  that  be  styfFe  and  stronge 

Loaded  with  goulde  shall  they  bee ; 
With  sadells  syde  skurted,  I  doe  the  tell, 

Wherin  the  goulde  sewed  shall  bee ; 
Yf  any  man  saye  whoes  ys  the  shippe. 

That  sailethe  furthe  upon  the  seae, 


87 

Saye  yt  is  the  lord  Lyle ; 

In  England  and  Fraunce  wel  beloved  is  he. 
Then  came  furthe  the  Earle  of  Derbye, 

Theis  were  the  wurdes  he  said  to  Bessie ; 
He  said,  Bessie,  thou  arte  to  blame 

To  poynte  any  shippe  upon  the  seae ; 
I  have  a  gude  shippe  of  myne  owne, 

Shall  carye  Humfrey  and  my  mules  three ; 
An  eigle  shall  be  drawen  upon  the  maste  toppe, 

That  the  Italyants  may  yt  see ; 
There  is  noe  freake  in  all  Fraunce, 

That  the  eigle  darre  once  come  nee. 
Yf  any  man  aske  whoes  is  the  shippe, 

Saye  yt  is  the  Earles  of  Derby e. 
Humfrey  toke  the  mules  three. 

Into  the  w^este  w^ynde  taketh  hee. 
At  Hyrpon  withouten  dovsi;e 

There  shippinge  taketh  hee. 
With  a  softe  wynde  and  a  coale. 

Thus  he  saileth  upon  the  seae,  [be ; 

To  Begeram  Abbey e  vt^here  the  English  e  prince 

The  porter  v^as  an  Englisheman, 
Well  he  knewe  Humfrey  Breerton, 

And  faste  to  hym  can  he  gon : 


88 

Humfrey  knocked  at  the  gate  pryvelie. 

And  theis  wordes  he  said  trulye, 
I  praye  the,  porter,  open  the  gate, 

And  receave  me  and  mules  three  ; 
I  shall  the  gyve  withouten  lett 

Red  goulde  unto  thy  meede. 
I  wyll  none  of  thy  goulde,  the  porter  said. 

Nor  yett,  Humfrey,  none  of  thy  fee ; 
But  I  will  open  the  gates  wyde. 

And  receave  the  and  thy  mules  three ; 
For  a  Cheshire  man  borne  am  I, 

From  the  Malpas  but  myles  three. 
The  porter  opened  the  gates  soone, 

Receaved  hym  and  the  mules  three ; 
The  beste  wyne  radlye  then, 

To  Humfrey  Breerton  gy vethe  he. 
Alas !  said  Humfrey,  howe  shall  I  doe  ? 

For  I  am  stad  in  a  strange  cowntrye; 
The  Prynce  of  England  I  doe  not  knowe. 

Before  I  did  hym  never  see. 
I  shall  the  teache,  said  the  porter  then. 

The  Prynce  of  England  to  knowe  trulye  ; 
See  where  he  shooteth  at  the  buttes, 

And  with  hym  are  lordes  three ; 


89 

He  weareth  a  gowne  of  velvette  blacke, 

And  yt  is  coted  above  the  knee ; 
With  longe  visage  and  pale, 

Therbye  the  prynce  knowe  may  yee ; 
A  privye  warte  withouten  lett 

He  bathe  a  htill  above  the  chyn. 
His  face  is  white,  the  vs^arte  is  red, 

Therbye  full  well  yee  may  hym  ken. 
Nowe  from  the  porter  is  he  gon, 

With  hym  he  tooke  the  mules  three. 
To  Earle  Richmonde  he  went  anon. 

Where  the  other  lordes  dyd  bee. 
And  when  he  came  before  the  prynce, 

Lowlye  he  kneled  upon  his  knee. 
And  delivered  hym  the  letter  that  Bessie  send, 

And  soe  he  did  the  mules  three. 
And  a  riche  rynge  with  a  stone, 

There  the  pry[n]se  glad  was  he ; 
He  tooke  the  rynge  at  Humfrey  then. 

And  kyssed  yt  tymes  three. 
Humfrey  kneled  still  as  any  stone, 

Assuredlye  as  I  tell  thee ; 
Humfrey  of  the  prynce  worde  gate  none, 

Therfore  in  harte  he  was  not  merye. 

12 


90 

Humfrey  standeth  up  then  anon, 

To  the  prynce  these  wurdes  saith  hee ; 
Whye  standest  thou  soe  still  in  this  styde, 

And  noe  answere  thou  doest  gyve  me  ? 
I  am  comen  from  the  Standlees  boulde, 

Kynge  of  England  to  make  the, 
And  a  faire  ladye  to  thy  feere. 

There  is  none  suche  in  Christentye  ; 
She  is  a  cowntas,  a  kynges  doughter, 

The  name  of  hir  it  is  Bessie, 
A  lovlye  ladye  to  loke  upon. 

And  well  shee  can  wurke  by  prophesy e. 
I  may  be  caled  a  lowte  messenger, 

For  answere  of  the  I  can  gett  non, 
I  may  sayle  howme  with  a  heavye  cheare  ; 

What  shall  I  say  when  I  come  howme  ? 
The  prynce  tooke  the  lorde  Lilye, 

And  the  Earle  of  Oxforde  was  hym  nee. 
The  Lorde  Ferres  woulde  hym  not  begyle^ — 

To  a  counsell  they  goe  all  three. 
When  they  had  their  counsell  tane. 

To  Humfrey  Breerton  turnethe  hee, — 
Answere,  Humfrey,  I  can  gj^e  none, 

Not  for  the  space  of  weekes  three ; 


91 

When  three  weekes  are  comen  and  gon, 

Then  an  answere  I  shall  gyve  thee. 
The  mules  into  a  stable  are  tane, 

The  sadell-skirtes  then  rypeth  hee, 
Therin  he  fyndeth  goulde  great  plentye, 

For  to  wage  a  company e. 
He  caused  the  houshoulde  to  make  hym  cheare, 

And  saith  in  my  steede  lett  hym  bee. 
Yerlye  on  the  other  mornyng, 

Assonne  as  yt  was  the  breake  of  daye, 
With  hym  he  toke  the  lordes  three. 

And  streighte  to  Parys  he  tooke  the  way. 
A  herotte  of  armes  they  readye  made. 

To  the  Kynge  of  Fraunce  then  wyndeth  [he] . 
Of  men  and  money  he  doth  hym  praye, 

And  shippes  to  brynge  hym  over  the  seae ; 
The  Standleyes  stowte  for  me  have  send, 

Kynge  of  England  to  make  me  ; 
And  yf  ever  I  weare  the  crowne. 

Well  quite  the  Kynge  of  Fraunce  shall  be. 
Then  answered  the  Kynge  of  Fraunce, 

And  sweareth  shortlye  by  sayncte  John, 
Men  nor  money  getteth  he  none, 

Nor  shippes  to  brynge  hym  over  the  foame. 


92 

Thus  the  pry  nee  his  answere  hath  tane, 

And  the  Enghsh  lordes  gaye, 
To  Begaram  Abbey  rydeth  he, 

There  as  Humfrey  Breerton  lay ; 
Have  here,  Humfrey,  a  thousand  markes, 

Better  rewarded  shalte  thou  be ; 
Commend  me  to  Bessie,  that  cowntas  cleare, 

And  yett  I  did  hir  never  see : 
I  truste  in  God  she  shall  be  my  queene. 

For  hir  I  wyll  travell  the  seae ; 
Commende  me  to  my  father  Standley, 

Myne  owne  mother  maryed  hee, 
Brynge  hym  here  a  love  letter. 

And  another  to  yonge  Bessie : 
Tell  hir,  I  truste  in  the  Lorde  of  myghte 

That  my  queene  she  shall  bee. 
Commende  [me]  to  Sir  William  Standley, 

That  nowble  knyghte  in  the  weste  countrye, 
Tell  hym  aboute  Michaelmas 

I  truste  in  God  in  England  to  be ; 
At  Melford  haven  I  wyll  come  in 

With  all  the  powers  I  brynge  with  me. 
The  firste  towne  that  I  may  myn, 

Shal  be  the  towne  of  Shrewesburye. 


93 

Praye  Sir  William,  that  nowble  knyghte, 

That  nyghte  he  woulde  looke  on  me  :  [wight  e, 
Commend  [me]  to  Sir  Gilbert  Talbott,  that  is  soe 

He  lyethe  styll  in  the  northe  cowntrye: 
I  wyll  non  of  thy  goulde,  sir  prynee, 

Ner  yett  I  wyll  non  of  thy  fee, 
Yf  everie  heare  of  my  heade  were  a  man. 

With  the,  sir  prynee,  shoulde  they  bee. 
Thus  Humfrey  Breerton  his  leave  hath  tane, 

And  furthe  he  saylethe  upon  the  seae, 
Straighte  to  London  can  he  ryde, 

Wheras  the  earle  and  Bessie  lee ; 
He  tooke  them  eyther  a  letter  in  hande. 

And  bad  them  looke,  reede  and  see. 
The  earle  tooke  leave  of  Richard  the  kynge. 

And  into  the  weste  rydethe  hee ; 
And  leavethe  Bessie  at  Layceter, 

And  bad  hir  lye  in  privetye ; 
For  yf  Kynge  Richard  knewe  the  there, 

In  a  fyer  brend  moste  thou  bee. 
Streighte  to  Lathum  is  he  gon. 

Where  the  Lorde  Strange  dyd  lye  ;j 
And  send  the  Lorde  Strange  to  London, 

To  keepe  Richard  companye. 


94 

Sir  William  Standley  ten  thowsand  coates 

In  an  howres  warnyng  readye  to  bee, 
They  were  read  as  any  blode, 

There  the  hartes  head  is  sett  full  hye. 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbott  ten  thowsand  dagges 

In  an  owres  warnyng  readye  to  bee, 
Sir  John  Savage  fifteen  hundreth  white  houddes, 

For  they  wyll  fighte  and  never  flee ; 
Sir  Edward  Standley  three  hundreth  men, 

There  were  noe  better  in  Christentye ; 
Sir  Ryse  ap  Thomas,  a  knyghte  of  Walles, 

Eighte  thousande  speare  men  broughte  bee. 
Sir  William  Standley  at  the  Holte  he  lyethe, 

And  loked  over  his  head  soe  bee ; 
Where  standeth  the  wynde  ?  then  he  saithe. 

Is  there  any  man  can  tell  me  ? 
The  wynde  yt  standeth  sowth  weste. 

See,  said  a  knyghte  that  stoode  hym  bye. 
This  nyghte  yonder  royall  prynce. 

Into  England  entereth  bee. 
He  caled  a  gentylman  that  stoode  hym  bye. 

His  name  was  Rowland  Werburton, 
He  bad  him  goe  to  Shrewesburye  that  nyghte, 
And  byd  them  lett  that  prynce  in  come  : 


95 

By  then  that  Rowland  came  to  Shrewesburye, 

The  porte-cales  was  letten  downe ; 
They  caled  the  prynce  in  full  great  scorne, 

And  said,  in  England  he  sholde  weare  noe 
erowne. 
Rowland  bethoughte  hym  of  a  wylle. 

And  tyed  the  wrytinges  to  a  stone, 
He  threwe  the  wryttinges  over  the  walle. 

And  bad  the  bayliffes  loke  them  upon. 
Then  they  oppened  the  gates  on  everie  syde, 

And  mett  the  prynce  with  procession ; 
Hewoulde  not  abyde  in  Shrewesburye  that  nyghte 

For  Kynge  Richard  hard  of  his  comynge, 
And  caled  his  lordes  of  renowne ; 

The  Lorde  Percye  came  to  hym  then. 
And  on  his  knees  he  kneled  hym  downe, 

Saithe,    my  lege,    I   have   xxx.tie  thowsand 
fighting  men. 
The  Duke  of  Northfolke  came  to  the  kynge. 

And  downe  he  kneleth  upon  his  knee ; 
The  Earle  of  Surrey  came  vsdth  hym. 

They  were  bothe  in  companye ; 
And  we  have  eyther  xx.tie  thousand  fighting  men. 

For  to  keepe  the  crov^nie  with  the. 


96 

The  Lorde  Scroope  and  the  Earle  of  Kentt, 

They  were  all  in  companye  ; 
The  Byshoppe  of  Doram  was  not  awaye, 

Sir  William  Bowmer  stode  hym  bye  ; 
The  gude  Sir  William  Harrington 

Said,  he  woulde  fyghte  and  never  flee. 
Kynge  Richard  made  a  messenger, 

And  send  into  the  weste  cowntrye, 
Byd  the  Earle  of  Derbye  make  hym  readye, 

And  brynge  twentye  thowsand  men  to  me, 
Or  the  Lorde  Strange  head  I  shall  hym  send. 

For  dowtles  nowe  that  he  shall  dye ; 
Without  he  come  to  me  full  sonne, 

His  owne  sonn  he  shall  never  see ; 
Then  an  other  heyrotte  can  appeare 

To  Sir  William  Standley,  that  nowble  knyghte, 
Byd  hym  brynge  ten  thowsand  men. 

Or  to  the  deathe  he  shall  be  dighte. 
Then  answered  that  doughtye  knyghte, 

And  spake  to  the  heryotte  without  letting ; 
Say,  on  Bosworthe  Feilde  I  wyll  hym  meete, 

On  Mundaye  yearlie  in  the  mornynge  ; 
Suche  a  breakfaste  I  hym  hett. 

As  never  did  knyghte  to  noe  kynge ! 


97 

The  messenger  is  howme  gon, 

To  tell  Kynge  Richard  this  tythinge. 
Then  Richard  togeder  his  handes  can  dynge, 

And  said,  the  Lorde  Strange  shoulde  dye ; 
He  had  putt  hym  in  the  Towre, 

For  sure  I  will  hym  never  see. 
Nowe  leave  we  Richard  and  his  lordes, 

That  were  preste  all  full  with  pryde, 
And  talke  we  of  the  Standleyes  blood, 

That  broughte  the  prynce  on  the  other  syde. 
Nowe  is  Richmonde  to  Stafford  comen, 

And  Sir  William  Standley  to  Litill  Stone ; 
The  prynce  had  leaver  then  any  goulde 

Sir  William  Standley  to  loke  upon. 
A  messinger  was  readye  made, 

That  nyghte  to  Stone  rydeth  hee ; 
Sir  William  rydethe  to  Stafford  towne, 

With  hym  a  smalle  company e. 
When  the  knyghte  to  Stafford  come, 

That  Richmond  myghte  hym  see ; 
He  toke  hym  in  his  armes  then, 

And  kyssed  hym  tymes  three ; 
The  welfare  of  thy  bodye  comforteth  me  more 

Then  all  the  goulde  in  Christentye ! 

13 


98 

Then  answered  ther  that  royall  knyghte, 

To  the  prynce  thus  speaketh  hee,-^ 
Rememer,  man,  bothe  daye  and  nyghte, 

Whoe  nowe  doeth  the  moste  for  the ; 
In  England  thou  shalte  weare  the  crowne, 

Or  ells  dowteles  I  wyll  dye ; 
A  faire  ladye  thou  shalte  fynde  to  thy  fere 

As  is  any  in  Christentye ; 
A  kynges  doughter,  a  cowntas  cleare, 

Yea  she  is  bothe  wysse  and  wyttie. 
I  muste  goe  to  Stone,  my  sovereigne, 

For  to  comforte  my  men  this  nyghte. 
The  prynce  toke  hym  by  the  hande, 

And  said,  farewell,  gentyll  knyghte  ! 
Nowe  is  worde  comen  to  Sir  William  Standley, 

Yerlye  vpon  Sundaye  in  the  mornynge, 
That  the  Earle  of  Derbye,  his  brother  dere. 

Had  given  battell  to  Richard  the  kynge. 
That  woulde  I  not,  sayd  Sir  William, 

For  all  the  goulde  in  Christentye, 
Excepte  I  were  with  hym  there. 

At  that  battell  myselfe  to  be. 
Then  streighte  to  Lychfeilde  can  he  ryde 

In  all  the  haste  that  myghte  be. 


99 

And  when  they  come  into  the  towne, 

All  they  cryed,  Kynge  Henrye ! 
Then  streighte  to  Bosworth  wolde  he  ryde 

In  all  the  haste  that  myghte  bee, 
And  when  he  came  to  Bosworthe  Feylde, 

There  he  meett  with  a  royall  armye. 
The  Earle  of  Derbye  he  was  there, 

And  twentye  thowsand  stoode  hym  bye ; 
Sir  John  Savage,  his  sisteres  sonne, 

He  was  his  nephewe  of  blode  soe  nye ; 
He  had  xv.een  hundreth  feighting  men, 

There  was  noe  better  in  Christentye. 
Sir  William  Standley,  that  nowble  knyghte. 

Ten  thowsand  read  coates  that  day  had  hee ; 
Sir  Ryse  up  Thomas  he  was  there, 

With  ten  thowsand  speares  myghtye  of  tree ; 
Earle  Richmond  came  to  the  Earle  of  Derbye, 

And  downe  he  kneleth  upon  his  knee ; 
He  said,  father  Standley,  I  the  praye 

That  the  vowarde  thou  woulde  gjYe  me. 
For  I  am  comen  for  my  righte, 

Full  fayne  venged  woulde  I  bee  ! 
Stand  up,  he  said,  my  sonne  deare. 

Thou  haste  thy  motheres  blessing  by  me, 


100 

The  vowarde,  sonne,  I  wyll  thee  gyve, 

For  whye,  by  me  thou  wilste  ordered  be : 
Sir  William  Standley,  my  brother  dere, 

In  that  batell  he  shall  bee ; 
Sir  John  Savage,  that  hath  noe  peare, 

He  shall  be  a  vs^ynge  unto  the ; 
Sir  Ryse  up  Thomas  shall  breake  the  raye. 

For  he  wyll  feighte  and  never  flee ; 
And  I  myselfe  wyll  hove  on  this  hill, 

That  faire  battell  for  to  see. 
Kynge  Richard  hoved  on  the  mountaynes. 

And  was  ware  of  the  banner  of  the  boulde 
Standley ; 
He  said,    feche    hither  the    Lorde    Strange  to 
me, 

For  dowtles  he  shall  dye  this  day. 
To  the  deathe,  Lorde,  make  the  bowne, 

For  by  Marye  that  mylde  maye. 
Thou  shalte  dye  for  thyne  uncles  sake, 

His  name  is  William  Standley, 
Yf  I  shoulde  dye,  said  the  Lorde  Strange, 

As  God  forbyd  yt  soe  shoulde  bee, 
Alas !  for  my  ladye  at  howme, 

Yt  will  be  longe  or  she  me  see ! 


,  101 

But  we  shall  meete  at  domes  daye, 

When  the  greate  dome  yt  shall  bee. 
He  called  a  gentylman  of  Lancashire, 

His  name  was  Lathum  trulye  ; 
A  rynge  besyde  his  fynger  he  tooke. 

And  caste  yt  to  that  gentylman, 
And  bade  hym  brynge  yt  to  Lancashire, 

To  my  ladye  that  is  at  whome ; 
At  hir  table  she  may  sitt, 

Or  she  see  hir  lorde  yt  may  be  longe : 
1  have  noe  feete  to  schunte  nor  flytte, 

1  muste  be  murdered  with  a  tyrant  stronge : 
Yf  yt  fortune  myne  uncle  to  lose  the  feilde, 

As  God  defend  yt  should  so  bee, 
Pray  hir  to  take  my  eldest  sonn. 

And  exile  hym  over  the  seae ; 
He  may  come  in  another  tyme 

By  fylde,  frygh,  tower,  or  towne, 
Wreake  he  may  his  fathers  deathe  [crowne. 

On   Richard    of   England    that  weareth  the 
A  knyghte  to  the  Kynge  did  appeare. 

The  gude  Sir  William  Harrington  : — 
Saithe,  lett  hym  have  his  liffe  a  while, 

Tyll  ye  have  the  father,  uncle,  and  sonn ; 


102 


We  shall  have  them  sone  in  feilde, 

The  father,  the  sonn,  and  the  uncle  all  three ; 
Then  may  you  deme  them  with  your  mouthe, 

What  kynde  of  deathe  that  they  shall  dye. 
But  a  blocke  on  the  ground  was  caste, 

There  upon  the  lordes  head  was  layde, 
A  sawe  over  his  head  can  stand. 

And  out  of  fashion  yt  was  brayde. 
He  said,  there  is  noe  other  boote, 

But  that  thou,  lord,  nedeth  muste  dye ; 
Harryngton  harte  yt  was  full  woe, 

When  yt  woulde  noe  better  bee. 
He  saith,  our  ray  breaketh  on  everie  syde. 

We  putt  our  feilde  in  joperdye  ! 
Then  the  tooke  up  the  lorde  on-lyve, 

Kynge  Richard  did  hym  never  see. 
Then  they  blewe  up  bugells  of  brasse, 

The  schottes  of  gunes  were  soe  feirce 
That  made  many  wyves  to  crye,  alas ! 

And  mony  a  childe  fatherles. 
Sir  Ryse  up  Thomas  with  the  blacke  crowe 

Shortlye  made  haste  to  breake  the  ray ; 
With  xxx.tie  thowsand  feighting  men 

The  Lorde  Pearcye  went  his  way. 


103 

The  Duke  of  Northfolke  woulde  have  fledde 

With  twentye  thowsand  of  his  companye ; 
He  went  up  unto  a  wynde  mylne. 

And  stoode  upon  a  hyll  soe  hye. 
There  he  mett  Sir  John  Savage,  a  royall  knyghte, 

With  hym  a  wurthye  companye ; 
To  the  deathe  the  Duke  was  dighte, 

And  his  sonn  prisoner  taken  was  he. 
Then  the  Lorde  Dacars  began  to  flee, 

Soe  dyd  mony  other  moe ; 
When  Kynge  Richard  that  sighte  dyd  see, 

In  his  harte  he  was  full  woe. 
I  praye  you,  my  men,  be  not  awaye, 

For  lyke  a  man  here  wyll  I  dye, 
For  I  had  leaver  dye  this  daye. 

Then  with  the  Standlees  taken  bee ! 
A  knyghte  to  Kynge  Richard  can  saye, 

(Yt  was  gude  Sir  William  of  Harryngton) 
He  sayth,  we  are  lyke  all  here 

To  the  death  sone  to  be  don. 
For  there  may  noe  man  their  strockes  abyde. 

The  Standlees  dynntes  they  bene  soe  stronge; 
Ye  may  come  in  another  tyme, 

Therfore  methynke  you  tarye  to  longe. 


104 

Your  horsse  is  readye  at  your  hand, 

Another  day  yee  maye  wurshippe  wynne. 
And  to  reigne  with  royaltye, 

And  weare  the  crowne  and  be  our  kynge. 
He  said,  give  me  my  battell  axe  in  myne  hande, 

Sett  the  crowne  of  England  upon  my  head  soe 
hee, 
For  by  Hym  that  made  both  sunne  and  monne, 

Kynge  of  England  this  daye  will  I  dye ! 
Besyde  his  head  they  hewe  the  crowne, 

And  dange  on  hym  as  they  were  woode  ; 
They  stroke  his  bacenett  to  his  head, 

Untill  his  braynes  came  out  with  blodde. 
They  caryed  hym  naked  into  Layceter, 

And  bouckled  his  heire  under  his  chyn ; 
Bessie  mett  hym  with  a  merye  cheare, 

These  were  the  wordes  she  said  to  hym. 
How  likest  thou  the  sleaying  of  my  brethren 
dere  ? 

(She  spake  theis  wordes  to  hym  alon) 
Nowe  are  we  wroken  upon  the  here, 

Welcome,  gentyll  uncle,  howme  ! 
Greate  solas  yt  was  to  see, 

I  tell  you,  maysters,  without  lett. 


105 

When  the  Reade  Rowse  of  mekyll  price, 

And  yonge  Bessie  togeder  were  mett. 
A  byshoppe  them  maryed  with  a  rynge. 

The  two  bloodes  of  highe  renowne ; — 
Bessie  said,  nowe  may  we  synge. 

We  two  bloodes  are  made  at  one. 
The  Earle  of  Derbye  he  was  there. 

And  Sir  WiUiam  Standley,  a  man  of  mighte  ; 
Upon  their  heades  they  sett  the  crowne, 

In  presence  of  mony  a  wurthye  wyghte. 
Then  came  he  under  a  clowde. 

That  some  tyme  in  England  was  full  hee ; 
The  harte  began  to  keste  his  heade, 

After  noe  man  myghte  yt  see  ; 
Butt  God,  that  is  bothe  bryghte  [and]  sheene, 

And  borne  was  of  a  mayden  free. 
Save  and  keepe  our  comlye  queene. 

And  also  the  poore  comenalitye ! 


14 


f">)  (^^  ^^  s^  ^^ 
^  ^B  ^  ^  1^ 
^  #  #  #  # 


A  M  I  C  I  A. 


The  following  old  ballad  relates  to  a  famous  dispute  between 
two  Cheshire  Knights,  Sir  Peter  Leycester  and  Sir  Thomas 
Mainwaring,  about  the  legitimacy  of  Amicia,  daughter  of  Hugh 
Lupus.  The  worthy  knights  were  related  by  marriage,  and  the 
controversy  agitated  the  county  for  many  years,  and  was  hardly 
settled  after  the  death  of  one  of  the  principal  controversialists. 
Communicated  to  me  by  Mr.  W.  H.  Black. 


y4  new  Ballad,  made  of  a  high  and  mighty  Controversy 
between  two  Cheshire  Knights,  1673. 

(From  the  Ashmolean  MSS.  No.  860,  iii,  art.  1,  and  No.  836,  art.  183.) 


WO   famous    wights,    both    Cheshire 
Knights, 

Thomas  yclep'd  and  Petre, 
A  quarrel  had,  which  was  too  bad, 

As  bad  as  is  my  metre. 


Neere  kinsmen  were  they,  yet  had  a  great  fray, 

Concerning  things  done  quondam ; 
I  think  as  long  since  as  Will  Rufus  was  Prince, 

E'en  about  their  Great-great-grandame. 


107 

Sir  Peter*  (good  man)  this  quarell  began : 
Whilst  he  tumbles  ore  ancient  deedes. 

Old  women    can't   have    quiet    rest     in    their 
graves, 
So  loud  he  proclaimes  what  he  reades. 

When  in  reading  he  found  (as  he  thought)  good 
ground 
To  judge  his  Grannam  a  bastard ; 
Though  he  blemisht  her  name,  yet  it  to  pro- 
claime 
He  resolv'd  hee'd  be  no  dastard. 

But  boldly  durst  say,  that  Amicia, 
Daughter  of  Hugh  Earle  of  Chester, 

For  certaine  was  bore  to  him    .  .^'.\ 
As  sure  as  his  name  was  Leycester. 

To  this  good  intent  he  us'd  much  argument, 

The  which  all  such  as  are  wiUing 
Fully  to  know,  let  them  quickly  bestow 

Upon  his  Booke  sixteene  shilling. 

*  Sir  Peter  Leycester :    (Margin.) 


108 

His  Grannam's  his  friend ;  yet  truth  hee'l  defend, 

And  httle  dirt  he  throws  on  her, 
For  as  now,  so  then,  among  your  great  men, 

A  bastard  is  small  dishonour. 

Another  grandchild,  hearing  this  was  stark  wild, 

The  affront  he  could  not  disgest ; 
But  takes  pen  in  hand,  the  same  to  withstand. 

As  scorning  to  fowl  his  own  nest. 

His    Grannam    hee'l    right,    against  th'  erring 
That  slander'd  her  without  warrant :   [Knight, 

Who  does  not  his  best,  to  free  ladies  opprest, 
Is  not  a  true  Knight  Errant. 

Hist'ry  and  lawes  he  cites  for  his  cause, 
With  Judges  and  Heraldes  ;  what  more  ? 

With  these  hee'l  defy  the  scandalous  lye, 
That  made  him 

They  us'd  not  their  swords,  but  their  pens  and 
fowl  words, 

Which  noyse  with  other  folks  laughter, 
Could  not  chuse  but  awake  (to  clere  this  mistake) 

The  jolly  old  Earl  and  his  daughter. 


109 

Then  up  start  [s]  Earl  Hughe,  and  sayes  "Is  it 
true — 

That  I,  brave  Chester's  Earle, 
Am  summon'd  to  appear  before  Justices  here, 

As  charg'd  with  a  by-blow  girle  ?" 

Not  another  word,  but  clapt  hand  on  his  sword; 

While  she  (gentle  Amicia) 
For  feare  of  some  slaughter  that  might  come 
after. 

Besought  him  in  patience  to  stay. 

But  she  told  her  Grandson,    "  'Twas  uncivilly 
done 
Such  a  hideous  pudder  to  keep  : 
Whilst  he  dreames  that  folks  soules  do  snort  in 
dark  holes 
To  awake  us  out  of  our  sleepe. 

*'  Should  it  have  been  true,  that's  suspected  by 
you, 

Its  father  was  able  to  nourish 
The  barne  he  had  got,  and  sure  I  should  not 

Have  been  any  charge  to  the  parish. 


110 

"  But  you,  dear   Sir  Thomas,  (much  honor  to 
your  domus) 

That  my  cause  so  well  have  defended; 
Henceforth  leave  Amicia,  both  keepe  Amicitia  ; 

And  so  let  the  quarell  be  ended." 


THE   CHETHAM   LIBRARY. 


The  following  Ballad,  in  the  Lancashire  dialect,  contains  an 
account  of  a  holiday  trip  to  see  the  "  curiosities,"  and  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  provincial  manners.  It  is  here  taken  from  a  copy 
preserved  by  Hone. 


Johnny  Green's  Wedding,  and  Description  of 
Manchester  College. 

lyjEAW  lads  where  ar  yo  beawn  so  fast, 
Yo  happun  ha  no  yerd  whot's  past ; 
Au  gettun  wed  sin  au'r  here  last. 

Just  three  week  sin  come  Sunday. 
Au  ax'd  th'  owd  folk,  an  aw  wur  reet. 
So  Nan  an  me  agreed  tat  neet, 
Ot  if  we  could  mak  both  eends  meet. 

We'd  wed  o'  Easter  Monday. 


Ill 

That  morn,  as  prim  as  pewter  quarts, 

Aw  th'  wenches  coom  an  browt  th'  sweet-hearts, 

Au  fund  we'r  loike  to  ha  three  carts, 

'Twur  thrunk  as  Eccles  Wakes,  mon. 
We  donn'd  eawr  tits  i'  ribbins  too, 
One  red,  one  green,  and  tone  wur  blue. 
So  hey !  lads,  hey !  away  we  flew, 

Loike  a  race  for  th'  Ledger  stakes,  mon. 

Reet  merrily  we  drove,  full  bat. 

An  eh !  heaw  Duke  and  Dobbin  swat ; 

Owd  Grizzle  wur  so  lawm  an  fat. 

Fro  soide  to  soide  boo  jow'd  um  : 
Deawn  Withy-Grove  at  last  we  coom. 
An  stopt  at  Seven  Stars,  by  gum. 
An  drunk  as  mich  warm  ale  an  rum, 

As'd  dreawn  o'th'  folk  i'  Owdham. 

When  th'  shot  wur  paid,  an  drink  wur  done. 
Up  Fennel- Street,  to  th'  church,  for  fun. 
We  donc'd  loike  morris-dancers  dun. 

To  th'  best  of  aw  meh  knowledge : 
So  th'  job  wuY  done  i'  hoave  a  crack. 
Boh  eh !  whot  fun  to  get  th'  first  smack ! 
So  neaw  meh  lads  'fore  we  gun  back, 

Says  au,  we'll  look  at  th'  college. 


112 

We  seed  a  clock-case,  first,  good  laws ! 
Where  death  stons  up  wi'  great  lung  claws, 
His  legs,  and  wings,  and  lantern  jaws, 

They  really  look'd  quite  fearink. 
There's  snakes,  an  watch-bills  just  loike  poikes 
Ot  Hunt  an  aw  the  reformink  toikes 
An  thee  an  me,  an  Sam  o  Moiks, 

Onci't  took  a  blanketeerink. 

Eh !  lorjus  days,  booath  far  an  woide, 
There's  yards  o'  books  at  every  stroide. 
Fro'  top  to  bothum,  eend  an  soide, 

Sich  plecks  there's  very  few  so : 
Au  axt  him  if  they  wurn  for  t'  sell. 
For  Nan  loikes  readink  vastly  well, 
Boh  th'  measter  wur  eawt,  so  he  couldna  tell, 

Or  au'd  bowt  hur  Robinson  Crusoe. 

There's  a  trumpet  speyks  and  maks  a  din. 
An  a  shute  o  clooas  made  o  tin. 
For  folk  to  goo  a  feightink  in. 

Just  loike  thoose  chaps  o'  Boney's  : 
An  there's  a  table  carv'd  so  queer, 
Wi'  OS  mony  planks  os  days  i'  th'  year. 
An  crinkum-crankums  here  an  there, 

Loike  th'  clooas  press  at  meh  gronney's. 


113 

There's  Oliver  Crumill's  boms  an  balls, 

An  Frenchman's  guns,  they'd  tean  i'  squalls. 

An  swords,  os  lunk  os  me,  on  th'  waUs, 

An  bows  an  arrows  too,  mon : 
Au  didna  moind  his  fearfo  words, 
Nor  skeletons  o  men  an  birds. 
Boh  au  fair  hate  seet  o  greyt  lung  swords 

Sin  th'  feyght  at  Peterloo,  mon. 

We  seed  a  wooden  cock  loikewise. 
Boh,  dang  it,  mon,  theas  college  boys. 
They  tell'n  a  pack  o  starink  loies, 

Os  sure  os  teaw'r  a  sinner ; 
That  cock  when  it  smells  roast  beef '11  crow, 
Says  he ;  boh,  au  said,  teaw  lies,  au  know, 
An  au  con  prove  it  plainly  so, 

Au've  a  peawnd  i'  meh  hat  for  meh  dinner. 

Boh  th'  hairy  mon  had  missed  meh  thowt, 
An  th'  clog  fair  crackt  by  thunner  bowt, 
An  th'  woman  noather  lawmt  nor  novd:, 

Thew  ne'er  seed  th'  loike  sin  t'ur  bom,  mon. 
There's  crocodiles,  an  things  indeed, 
Au  colours,  mak,  shap,  size,  an  breed. 
An  if  au  moot  tell  ton  hoave  au  seed 

We  moot  sit  an  smook  tiU  morn,  mon. 

15 


114 

Then  dewn  Lung  Mill-Gate  we  did  steer 
To  owd  Moike  Wilson's  goods-shop  there. 
To  bey  eawr  Nan  a  rockink-chear, 

An  pots,  an  spoons,  an  ladles : 
Nan  bowt  a  glass  for  lookink  in, 
A  tin  Dutch  oon  for  cookink  in, 
Au  bowt  a  cheer  for  smookink  in. 

An  Nan  ax'd  proice  o'  th'  cradles. 

Then  th'  fiddler  struck  up  th'  honey-moon. 
An  oif  we  sect  for  Owdham  soon. 
We  made  owd  Grizzle  trot  to  th'  tune, 

Every  yard  o'  th'  way,  mon. 
At  neet  oich  lad  an  bonny  lass. 
Laws  heaw  they  donc'd  an  drunk  their  glass  ! 
So  tiert  wur  Nan  an  I,  by  th'  mass, 

Ot  we  lay  till  twelve  next  day,  mon. 


115 


TOM  OF  CHESTER.^ 

TN  the  variety  of  inquiries  suggested  by  the 
infinite  divisions  of  hterature  and  science, 
the  superficial  reader  is  not  unnaturally  apt  to 
disregard  those  which  are  apparently  of  a  trifling 
character,  and  fix  his  attention  on  the  grander 
results,  forgetting  the  means  w^hich  have  fre- 
quently led  to  the  discovery  of  the  latter.  It  is 
perhaps  to  be  feared  that  this  disposition  is 
occasionally  the  effect  of  despising  a  pursuit, 
the  value  of  which  is  impossible  to  be  adequately 
appreciated  without  study  and  reflection ;  an 
error  sometimes  committed  even  by  the  scholar. 
The  collection  of  minute  facts  has  served  for 
many  a  noble  superstructure ;  and  this  truth  is 
seldom  lost  sight  of  by  the  man  of  science. 
But  in  literature  the  public  are  unwilling  to 
yield  so  complete  a  deference  to  researches 
which  are  not  of  a  recondite  character.  The 
cause  of  this  is  not  quite  easily  determined.     It 

*  This  paper  was  read  at  the  meeting  of  the  British  Archseolo- 
gical  Association  at  Chester  in  August,  1849. 


116 

may  be  that  ordinary  research  is  too  much  di- 
vested of  technicaHty  to  look  sufficiently  im- 
posing, and  the  individual  who  would  regard  the 
wooden  boards  and  the  "lettres  blake"  with 
reverence,  may  perchance  turn  with  a  smile 
from  the  frivolous  tracts  of  the  17th  century 
— those  grand  depositories  of  information  re- 
specting the  language  and  the  manners  of  the 
time,  without  the  aid  of  which  the  writings 
of  Shakespeare  and  Jonson,  Massinger  and 
Fletcher,  would  be  but  imperfectly  understood. 
The  effect  of  this  all  but  universal  inclination  is 
more  prejudicial  to  the  best  interests  of  litera- 
ture than  might  at  first  be  imagined ;  for  while 
subjects  of  inferior  importance  have  been  nearly 
exhausted,  the  advance  in  our  knowledge  of 
contemporary  allusions  in  our  great  dramatist 
has  been  comparatively  insignificant.  Nor  am 
I  only  contending  for  the  value  of  commentary 
on  the  noble  productions  of  the  Stratford  poet. 
The  age  of  Elizabeth  and  James  may  be  truly 
distinguished  as  the  golden  age  of  the  inventive 
drama  generally.  It  has  never  flourished  so 
luxuriantly  either  before  or  since,   nor  do  the 


117 

later  productions  of  the  class  exhibit  a  power 
that  would  in  any  way  lead  us  to  suppose  that 
the  spirit  will  again  arise.  Let  us,  therefore, 
while  it  is  yet  in  our  power,  contribute  our  mite 
of  illustration  to  these  our  English  classics.  I 
have  been  induced  to  prepare  this  brief  paper 
with  a  few  observations  on  the  value  of  our 
early  domestic  literature,  not  in  the  expectation 
of  adding  greatly  to  our  information  on  those 
subjects,  for  indeed  the  Hmits  generally  assigned 
to  papers  read  on  these  occasions  do  not  permit 
of  lengthened  dissertations,  but  rather  for  the 
purpose  of  impressing  on  your  minds  that  the 
importance  of  literary  inquiries  not  unfrequently 
bears  an  inverse  ratio  to  the  apparent  serious- 
ness of  the  materials  made  use  of.  Mr. 
Macaulay,  in  his  recent  *  History  of  England,' 
complains  of  the  obligation  of  quoting  what  he 
terms  "nauseous  balderdash."  The  complaint 
is  made  with  the  ardour  and  enthusiasm  of  a 
graceful  scholar,  yet  it  occurs  to  me,  that  had 
he  possessed  a  little  more  experience  in  the  best 
sources  of  antiquarian  information,  he  would 
have  known  that  the  richest  ore  is  frequently 


118 

concealed  beneath  the  most  repulsive  surface. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  it  was  permitted  me  to 
point  out  at  a  former  meeting  of  this  Associa- 
tion, that  a  passage  in  '  King  Lear,'  the  second 
greatest  tragedy  in  the  EngHsh  or  any  other 
language,  would  be  best  illustrated  by  a  few  lines 
from  the  renowned  History  of  Tom  Thumb, 
worse  balderdash,  I  can  assure  Mr.  Macaulay, 
than  any  quoted  in  the  pages  of  his  eloquent 
work.  Can  I  say  more  to  defend  myself  from 
the  imputation  of  desiring  to  trifle  away  the 
time  of  this  meeting  in  my  anxiety  to  introduce 
to  notice  a  little  tract,  entitled  ^  The  new  and 
diverting  history  of  Tom  of  Chester,  containing 
his  witty  franks,  jests,  &c.,'  only  one  copy  of 
which  (I  believe)  is  known  to  exist,  wdthout 
date,  but  printed  in  the  latter  part  of  the  17th 
century.  This  is  the  earliest  merriment  bearing 
the  name  of  any  individual  supposed  to  belong 
to  this  town  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  but 
I  suspect,  from  the  circumstance  of  having  met 
with  many  of  the  anecdotes  and  jests  elsewhere, 
it  is  merely  a  collection  of  earlier  productions 
made  up  to  please  the  good  Cestrians.     A  few 


119 

extracts  will  suffice  to  give  us  an  insight  into 
this  somewhat  remarkable  production. 

1.  An  old  painter,  at  the  repairing  of  a 
church  in  Chester,  was  writing  sentences  of 
Scripture  upon  the  walls.  By  chance  Tom 
came  into  the  church,  and  reading  them,  per- 
ceived much  of  false  English.  Old  man,  said 
Tom,  why  don't  you  write  true  English  ?  Alas ! 
sir,  quoth  he,  they  are  poore  simple  people  in 
this  parish,  and  they  will  not  goe  to  the  cost  of  it. 

2.  Once  on  a  time,  Tom  chanced  to  meet  a 
lady  of  his  acquaintance,  and  asked  her  how 
she  did,  and  how  her  husband  fared ;  at  which 
word  she  wept,  saying  that  her  husband  was  in 
heaven.  In  heaven !  quoth  he,  it  is  the  first 
time  I  heard  of  it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  with 
all  my  heart.  [This  anecdote  corresponds  with 
a  jest  made  by  the  Fool  in  '  Twelfth  Night,'  re- 
specting Olivia's  brother.] 

3.  A  lady  having  beene  ten  yeeres  in  suite  of 
law,  had  a  triall  at  last,  where  the  judgement 
went  on  her  side ;  whereupon  she  would  pre- 
sently expresse  her  joy  by  inviting  some  of  her 
neerest  tenants  and  neighbours  to  supper.    Tom 


120 

was  invited  to  the  feast,  to  whom  the  lady  said : 
I  thinke  I  have  beat  my  adversary  now,  though 
it  were  long  first ;  I  trow  he  will  make  no  brags 
of  his  meddhng  with  me.  Honest  Tom  re- 
phed :  Truly,  madame,  I  did  even  thinke  what 
it  would  come  to  at  least,  for  I  knew  when  he 
first  meddled  with  your  ladyship  that  he  had  a 
wrong  sow  by  the  ear. 

4.  A  minister  riding  into  the  west  parts  of 
Cheshire,  happened  to  stay  at  a  village  on  a 
Sunday,  where  he  kindly  offered  to  bestow  a 
sermon  upon  them ;  which  the  constable  hear- 
ing, did  ask  the  minister  if  he  were  licensed  to 
preach.  Yes,  quoth  he,  that  I  am ;  and  with 
that  drew  out  of  a  box  his  license,  which  was  in 
Latin.  Truly,  said  the  constable,  I  understand 
no  Latine,  yet  I  pray  you  let  me  see  it,  I  per- 
haps shall  pick  out  here  and  there  a  word.  No, 
good  sir,  quoth  the  minister,  I  wiU  have  no 
words  picked  out  of  it  for  spoiling  my  Hcense. 

5.  One  asked  Tom  of  Chester  what  soldiers 
were  hke  in  the  time  of  peace.  Indeed,  said 
Tom,  they  are  like  chimneys  in  summer. 

6.  One  Richard   Bunkle,  hving  in  Chester, 


121 

was  a  great  drunkard,  and  his  nose  was  purpled. 
Tom  said  of  him,  he  was  a  Dick  Bunkle,  but 
his  nose  was  a  carbuncle. 

7.  A  gentleman  in  Chester  had  a  goodly  fair 
house  new  built,  but  the  broken  bricks,  tiles, 
sand,  limestones,  and  such  rubbish  as  is  com- 
monly the  remnants  of  such  buildings,  lay  con- 
fusedly in  heaps,  and  scattered  here  and  there. 
The  gentleman  demanded  of  his  surveyor  where- 
fore the  rubbish  was  not  carried  away.  The 
surveyor  said  that  he  purposed  to  hire  a  hundred 
carts  for  the  purpose.  The  gentleman  replied 
that  the  charge  of  carts  might  be  saved,  for  a 
pit  might  be  digged  in  the  ground  and  bury  it. 
Sir,  said  the  surveyor,  I  pray  you  what  shall  we 
do  with  the  earth  which  we  dig  out  of  the  said 
pit?  Why,  you  silly  fellow,  said  the  gentleman, 
canst  thou  not  dig  the  pit  deep  enough,  and 
bury  all  together  ? 

8.  On  a  time,  Tom  saw  a  fellow  that  had  a 
jackdaw  to  sell.  Sirrah,  quoth  he,  what  wilt 
thou  take  for  thy  daw  ?  Sir,  quoth  the  fellow, 
the  price  of  my  daw  is  two  crowns.  Where- 
fore, said  Tom,  dost  thou  ask  so  much  for  him  ? 

16 


122 

The  fellow  replied  that  the  daw  could  speak 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Dutch,  and  Latin,  all 
which  tongues  he  will  speak  after  he  is  a  httle 
acquainted  in  your  house.  Well,  quoth  Tom, 
bring  thy  daw  in,  and  there  is  thy  money.  In 
conclusion,  Jack  Daw  (after  a  month  or  five 
weeks'  time)  never  spoke  otherwise  than  his 
father's  speech,  kaw,  kaw;  wherefore  Tom  said 
that  the  knave  had  cozened  him  of  his  money : 
but  it  is  no  great  matter,  there  is  no  loss  in  it ; 
for,  quoth  he,  though  my  daw  do  not  speak,  yet 
I  am  in  good  hope  that  he  thinks  the  more. 

9.  Tom  once  found  a  horseshoe,  and  stuck  it 
at  his  girdle,  where  passing  through  a  wood, 
some  robbers  lay  in  ambush,  and  one  of  them 
discharged  his  musket,  the  shot  by  fortune 
lighted  against  Tom's  horseshoe.  Ah,  ha!  quoth 
he,  I  perceive  that  Uttle  armour  will  serve  a 
man's  turn,  if  it  be  put  in  the  right  place. 

10.  Tom  said  he  could  never  have  his  health 
when  he  hved  in  Lancaster,  and  that  if  he  had 
lived  there  till  this  time,  he  thought  in  his  con- 
science that  he  had  died  seven  years  ago. 

11.  Tom   being   flustered   with   drink,    was 


123 

brought  before  a  justice,  who  committed  him  to 
prison ;  and  the  next  day  when  he  was  to  be 
discharged,  he  was  come  to  the  justice  again, 
who  said  to  him.  Sirrah,  you  were  not  drunk 
last  night.  Your  worship  says  true,  said  Tom. 
Yea,  but  you  were  drunk,  said  the  justice,  and 
you  did  abuse  me,  and  said  I  was  a  wise  justice. 
Tom  rephed,  If  I  said  so  I  think  I  was  drunk 
indeed,  and  I  cry  your  worship  mercy,  for  I 
will  never  do  you  that  wrong  when  I  am  sober. 
[The  commencement  of  this  anecdote  will  re- 
mind the  reader  of  a  phrase  in  Othello,  "  flus- 
tered with  flowing  cups."] 

12.  A  gentleman  commanded  his  man  to  buy 
him  a  great  hat,  with  a  button  in  the  brim,  to 
button  it  up  behind ;  his  man  bought  him  one, 
and  he  put  it  on  his  head  with  the  button  before, 
which  when  he  looked  in  the  glass  and  saw,  he 
was  very  angry,  saying,  Thou  cross  untoward 
knave,  did  I  not  bid  thee  buy  a  hat  with  the 
button  to  hold  it  up  behind,  and  thou  hast 
bought  me  one  that  turns  up  before.  I  com- 
mand thee  once  more,  go  thy  ways,  and  buy  me 
such  a  one  as  I  would  have,  whatsoever  it  cost  me. 


124 

We  have  reserved  this,  the  most  important 
fragment  of  the  contents  of  this  rare,  but  appa- 
rently frivolous  and  useless  tract,  for  the  last 
extract,  as  it  contains  sufficient  information  to 
impart  a  pecuhar  value  to  it,  and  vs^ill  convince 
our  hearers  how  frequently  a  peculiar  course  of 
reading  will  discover  interesting  facts  in  quarters 
that  would  usually  not  be  considered  worth  the 
labour    of   exploration.     Beware    then    of   the 
danger  of  casting  away  anything,  for  we  know 
not  what  use  we  may  have  for  it.     These  are 
the    soap-bubbles    of  literature,    but   they   not 
unfrequently  add  unexpectedly  most  materially 
to  our   knowledge  of   writings   which    all  the 
world  admit  are  worthy  of  minute  illustration. 
Need  we  now,  in  pursuing  this  subject,  recall 
the  reader's  attention  to  that  passage  in  Hamlet, 
*'  of  fortune's  cap  are  we  not  the  very  button," 
of  which  the  above  anecdote  affords  the  best 
explanation  I  have  met  with ;   though    at  the 
same  time  I  fear  the  proverb  may  be  only  too 
suggestive  of  a  comparison  with  the  preceding 
remarks. 


125 
THE  PENNILESSE  PILGRIMAGE. 


The  following  curious  extracts  are  taken  from  the  '  Workes  of 
John  Taylor,  the  Water-Poet,'  fol.  Lond.  1630.  All  the  writings 
of  this  honest  waterman  are  distinguished  by  their  extreme  quaint- 
ness  and  curiosity,  and  the  portion  now  given  is  no  exception  to 
that  character. 


|HAT  Thursday  morne,  my  weary  course  I 
fram'd, 
Vnto  a  towne  that  is  Newcastle  nam'd, 
(Not  that  Newcastle  standing  vpon  Tine) 
But  this  towne  scituation  doth  confine 
Neere  Cheshire,  in  the  famous  county  Stafford, 
And  for  their  loue,  I  owe  them  not  a  straw  for't; 
But  now  my  versing  muse  craues  some  repose, 
And  whilst  she  sleeps  He  spowt  a  httle  prose. 

In  this  towne  of  Newcastle,  I  ouertook  an 
hostler,  and  asked  him  what  the  next  towne  was 
called,  that  was  in  my  way  toward  Lancaster, 
he  holding  the  end  of  a  riding-rod  in  his  mouth, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  fluit,  piped  me  this  answer. 


126 

and  said,   "Talke  on  the  hill;"     I  asked  him 
againe  what  he  said,  "Talke  on  the  hill;"  I  de- 
manded the  third  time,  and  the  third  time  he 
answered  me  as  he  did  before,  "  Talke  on  the 
hill."     I  began  to  grow  cholericke,  and  asked 
him  why  he  could  not  talke,  or  tell  me  my  way 
as  well  there  as  on  the  hill ;  at  last  I  was  re- 
solued  that  the  next  toune  was  foure  miles  off 
mee,  and  that  the  name  of  it  was  Talke  on  the 
hill.    I  had  not  traueled  aboue  two  miles  farther : 
but  my  last  nights  supper  (which  was  as  much 
as  nothing)  my  minde  being  informed  of  it  by 
my  stomacke.     I  made  a  vertue  of  necessity, 
and  went  to  breakefast  in  the  sunne  :  I  haue 
fared  better  at  three  Sunnes  many  times  before 
now,  in  Aldersgate-street,  Criplegate,  and  new 
Fish-street ;    but   here    is  the   oddes,  at   those 
Sunnes  they  will   come    vpon   a   man  with   a 
tauerne  bill  as  sharp  cutting  as  a  taylers  bill  of 
items  :  a  watchmans  bill  or  a  Welch-hooke  falls 
not  halfe  so  heauy  vpon  a  man ;  besides,  most 
of  the  vintners  haue  the  law  in  their  own  hands, 
and  haue  all  their  actions,  cases,  bills  of  debt, 
and  such  reckonings  tried  at  their  owne  barres, 


127 

from  whence  there  is  no  appeale.  But  leaning 
these  impertinencies,  in  the  materiall  sunneshine, 
we  eate  a  substantial!  dinner,  and  like  miserable 
guests  we  did  budget  up  the  reuersions. 

And  now  with  sleep  my  muse  hath  eas'd  her 

braine, 
I'le  turne  my  stile  from  prose  to  verse  againe. 
That  which  we  could  not  haue,  we  freely  spar'd, 
And  wanting  drinke,  most  soberly  we  far'd. 
We  had  great  store  of  fowle  (but  'twas  foule  way) 
And  kindly  eury  step  entreates  me  stay ; 
The  clammy  clay  sometimes  my  heeles  would  trip, 
One  foot  went  foreward,  th'  other  backe  would  slip. 
This  weary  day,  when  I  had  almost  past, 
I  came  vnto  Sir  Urian  Legh's  at  last. 
At  Adlington,  neere  Macksfield  he  doth  dwell, 
Belou'd,  respected,  and  reputed  well. 
Through  his  great  loue,  my  stay  with  him  was  fixt. 
From  Thursday  night  till  noone  on  Monday  next. 
At  his  owne  table  I  did  daily  eate, 
Whereat  may  be  suppos'd  did  want  no  meat, 
He  would  haue  giu'n  me  gold  or  siluer  either. 
But  I  with  many  thankes  receiued  neither. 


128 

And  thus  much  without  flattery  I  dare  sweare, 
He  is  a  knight  beloued  farre  and  neere. 
First,  he  's  beloued  of  his  God  aboue, 
(Which  loue  he  loues  to  keep,  byond  all  loue) 
Next  with  a  wife  and  children  he  is  blest, 
Each  hauing  Gods  feare  planted  in  their  brest. 
With  faire  demaines,  reuennue  of  good  lands, 
He  's  fairely  blest  by  the  Almighties  hands. 
And  as  he  's  happy  in  these  outward  things. 
So  from  his  inward  mind  continuall  springs 
Fruits  of  deuotion,  deedes  of  piety. 
Good  hospitable  workes  of  charity, 
Just  in  his  actions,  constant  in  his  word, 
And  one  that  wonne  his  honour  with  the  sword. 
Hee  's  no  carranto,  capr'ing,  carpet  knight. 
But  he  knowes  when  and  how  to  speake  or  fight. 
I  cannot  flatter  him,  say  what  I  can, 
He 's  euery  way  a  compleat  gentleman. 
I  write  not  this  for  what  he  did  to  me. 
But  what  mine  cares  and  eyes  did  heare  and  see, 
Nor  doe  I  pen  this  to  enlarge  his  fame, 
But  to  make  others  imitate  the  same. 
For  like  a  trumpet  were  I  pleas'd  to  blow, 
I  would  his  worthy  worth  more  amply  show. 


129 

But  I  already  feare  haue  beene  too  bold, 

And  craue  his  pardon  me  excusd  to  hold. 

Thankes  to  his  sonnes  and  seruants  euery  one, 

Both  males  and  females  all,  excepting  none. 

To  beare  a  letter  he  did  me  require, 

Neere  Manchester,  vnto  a  good  esquire ; 

His  kinsman  Edmond  Prestwitch ;  he  ordain'd, 

That  I  was  at  Manchester  entertain'd 

Two  nights,  and  one  day,  ere  we  thence  could 

passe. 
For  men  and  horse,  rost,  boyl'd,  and  oates,  and 

grasse : 
This  gentleman  not  onely  gaue  harbor, 
But  in  the  morning  sent  to  me  his  harbor. 
Who  lau'd  and  shau'd  me,  still   I  spar'd   my 

purse. 
Yet  sure  he  left  me  many  a  haire  the  worse. 
But  in  conclusion,  when  his  worke  was  ended, 
His  glasse  inform'd  my  face  was  much  amended. 
And  for  the  kindnesse  he  to  me  did  show, 
God  grant  his  customers  beards  faster  grow. 
That  though  the    time    of  yeere  be  deare  or 

cheape. 
From  fruitfull  faces  he  may  mo  we  and  reape. 

IT 


130 

Then  came  a  smith  with  shooes,  and  tooth  and 

nayle. 
He  searched  my  horse  hooues,  mending  what 

did  faile, 
Yet  this  I  note,  my  nag,  through  stones  and  dirt. 
Did  shift  shooes  twice,  ere  I  did  shift  one  shirt : 
Can  these  kind  things  be  in  obKuion  hid  ? 
No,  Master  Prestwitch  this  and  much  more  did, 
His  friendship  did  command,  and  freely  gaue 
All  before  writ,  and  more  than  I  durst  craue. 
But  leaning  him  a  little,  I  must  tell 
How  men  of  Manchester  did  vse  me  well. 
Their  loues  they  on  the  tenter-hookes  did  racke, 
Rost,  boyld,  bak'd,  too  too  much,  white,  claret, 

sacke. 
Nothing  they  thought  too  heauy  or  too  hot, 
Canne  foUow'd  canne,  and  pot  succeeded  pot. 
That  what  they  could  do,  all  they  though  too 

little, 
Striuing  in  loue  the  traueller  to  whittle. 
We  went  into  the  house  of  one  John  Pinners, 
(A  man  that  hues  amongst  a  crue  of  sinners) 
And  there  eight  seuerall  sorts  of  ale  we  had. 
All  able  to  make  one  starke  drunke  or  mad. 


131 

But  I  with  courage  brauely  flinched  not, 
And  gaue  the  towne  leaue  to  discharge  the  shot. 
We  had  at  one  time  set  vpon  the  table 
Good  ale  of  hisope,  'twas  no  Esope  fable  : 
Then  had  we  ale  of  sage,  and  ale  of  malt, 
And  ale  of  woorme-wood,  that  could  make  one 

halt. 
With  ale  of  rosemary,  and  bettony, 
And  two  ales  more,  or  else  1  needs  must  lye. 
But  to  conclude  this  drinking  alye  tale, 
We  had  a  sort  of  ale  called  scuruy  ale. 
Thus  all  these  men,  at  their  own  charge  and 

cost, 
Did  striue  whose  loue  should  be  expressed  most. 
And  farther  to  declare  their  boundlesse  loues. 
They  saw  I  wanted,  and  they  gaue  me  gloues  ; 
In  deed,  and  very  deed,  their  loues  were  such. 
That  in  their  praise  I  cannot  write  too  much ; 
They  merit  more  than  I  haue  here  compil'd. 
I  lodged  at  the  Eagle  and  the  Child, 
Whereas  my  hostesse  (a  good  ancient  woman) 
Did  entertaine  me  with  respect  not  common. 
She  caused  my  linnen,  shirts,  and  bands  be  washt. 
And 'on  my  way  she  caus'd  me  be  refresht; 


132 

She  gaue  me  twelue  silke  points,  she  gaue  me 

baken, 
Which  by  me  much  refused,  at  last  was  taken, 
In  troath  she  prou'd  a  mother  vnto  me. 
For  which  I  euermore  will  thankefull  be. 
But  when  to  minde  these  kindnesses  I  call, 
Kinde  Master  Prestwitch  author  is  of  all. 
And  yet  Sir  Vrian  Leigh's  good  commendation 
Was  the  maine  ground  of  this  my  recreation. 
From  both  of  them,  there  what  I  had,  I  had. 
Or  else  my  entertainment  had  bin  bad. 
O  all  you  worthy  men  of  Manchester, 
(True-bred  bloods  of  the  county  Lancaster) 
When  I  forget  what  you  to  me  haue  done, 
Then  let  me  headlong  to  confusion  runne. 
To  noble  Master  Prestwitch  I  must  giue 
Thankes  vpon  thankes  as  long  as  I  doe  Hue, 
His  loue  was  such,  I  ne'r  can  pay  the  score. 
He  farre  surpassed  all  that  went  before, 
A  horse  and  man  he  sent,  with  boundlesse  bounty. 
To  bring  me  quite  through   Lancaster's  large 

county. 
Which  I  well  know  is  fifty  miles  at  large, 
And  he  defrayed  all  the  cost  and  charge.      ' 


133 

This  vnlook'd  pleasure  was  to  me  such  pleasure, 
That  I  can  ne'r  express  my  thankes  with  measure. 
So  Mistress  Saracoale,  hostesse  kinde, 
And  Manchester  with  thankes  I  left  behinde. 
The  Wednesday  being  Julyes  twenty-nine, 
My  iourney  I  to  Preston  did  confine. 
All  the  day  long  it  rained  but  one  showre, 
Which  from  the  morning  to  the  eue'n  did  powre, 
And  I,  before  to  Preston  I  could  get,        [sweat. 
Was  sowsd  and  pickeld  both  with  raine  and 
But  there  I  was  supply'd  with  fire  and  food, 
And  anything  I  wanted  sweet  and  good,     [host, 
There,  at  the  Hinde,  kinde  Master  Hinde,  mine 
Kept  a  good  table,  bak'd,  and  boyld,  and  rost. 
There  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday  I  did  stay. 
And  hardly  got  from  thence  on  Saturday. 
Vnto  my  lodging  often  did  repaire, 
Kinde  Master  Thomas  Banister,  the  mayor, 
Wlio  is  of  worship,  and  of  good  respect. 
And  in  his  charge  discreet  and  circumspect. 
For  I  protest  to  God  I  neuer  saw 
A  towne  more  wisely  gouern'd  by  the  law. 
They  told  me  when  my  soueraigne  there  was  last. 
That  one  man's  rashnes  seem'd  to  giue  distast. 


134 

It  grieu'd  them  all,  but  when  at  last  they  found 
His    maiestie   was    pleas'd,   their    ioyes   were 

crown'd. 
He  knew  the  fairest  garden  hath  some  weedes, 
He  did  accept  their  kind  intents  for  deedes : 
One  man  there  was,  that  with  his  zeale  too  hot, 
And  furious  haste,  himself  much  ouer-shot. 
But  what  man  is  so  foolish  that  desires  [bryers? 
To  get  good  fruit  from  thistles,   thornes,  and 
Thus  much  I  thought  good  to  demonstrate  here, 
Because  I  saw  how  much  they  grieued  were ; 
That  any  way,  the  least  part  of  offence. 
Should   make    them    seeme   offensiue  to  their 

prince.  [Preston, 

Thus  three  nights  was   I   staid  and  lodg'd  in 
And  saw  nothing  ridiculous  to  iest  on. 
Much  cost  and  charge  the  mayor  vpon  me  spent, 
And  on  my  way  two  miles  with  me  he  went. 
There  (by  good  chance)  I  did  more  friendship  get. 
The  vnder  shriefe  of  Lancashire  we  met, 
A  gentleman  that  lou'd  and  knew  me  well. 
And  one  whose  bounteous  mind  doth  beare  the  bell. 
There,  as  if  I  had  bin  a  noted  thiefe. 
The  mayor  deliuered  me  vnto  the  shriefe. 


135 

The  shriefes  authority  did  much  preuaile, 
He  sent  me  vnto  one  that  kept  the  iayle. 
Thus  I,  perambuling,  pore  lohn  Taylor, 
Was  giu'n  from  mayor  to  shreife,  from  shriefe  to 

iaylor, 
The    iaylor    kept    an  inne,   good   beds,    good 

cheere, 
Where  paying  nothing,  I  found  nothing  deere  -, 
For  the  vnder  shriefe,  kind  Master  Couill  nam'd, 
(A  man  for  housekeeping  renown'd  and  fam'd) 
Did  cause  the  towne  of  Lancaster  afford 
Me  welcome,  as  if  I  had  beene  a  Lord. 
And  'tis  reported,  that  for  daily  bounty. 
His  mate  can  scarce  be  found  in  all  that  county. 
Th'  extremes  of  mizer,  or  of  prodigall. 
He  shunnes,  and  hues  discreet  and  liberall. 
His  wiues  minde  and  his  owne  are  one,  so  fixt. 
That  Argus  eyes  could  see  no  oddes  betwixt. 
And  sure  the  difference,  if  there  difference  be, 
Is  who  shall  doe  most  good,  or  he,  or  she. 
Poore  folks  report,  that  for  relieuing  them. 
He  and  his  wife  are  each  of  them  a  iem ; 
At  th'  inne,  and  at  his  house  two  nights  I  staide. 
And  what  was  to  be  paid,  I  know  he  paide  ; 


136 

If  nothing  of  their  kindnesse  I  had  wrote, 
Ingratefull  me  the  world  might  iustly  note ; 
Had  I  declar'd  all  I  did  heare  and  see, 
For  a  great  flatt'rer  then  I  deemd  should  be  ; 
Him  and  his  wife,  and  modest  daughter  Besse, 
With  earth  and  heaven's  fehcity  God  blesse. 


j4n  excellent  New  Ballad,  intitl'd,  The  Unfortunate 
Love  of  a  Lancashire  Gentleman,  and  the  hard 
Fortune  of  a  Fair  Young  Bride. 

Tune,  Come,  follow  my  love. 

T  OOK,  ye  faithful  lovers, 
On  my  unhappy  state, 
See  my  tears  distilling, 

But  poured  out  too  late. 
And  buy  no  foolish  fancy 

At  too  dear  a  rate. 
Alack,  for  my  love  I  shaU  die. 


137 

My  father  he's  a  gentleman, 
Well  known  of  high  degree, 

And  tender  of  my  welfare 
Evermore  was  he ; 

He  sought  for  reputation. 
But  all  the  worse  for  me. 
Alack,  &c. 

There  was  a  proper  maiden. 
Of  favour  sweet  and  fair. 

To  whom  in  deep  affection 
I  closely  did  repair  : 

In  heart  I  dearly  lov'd  her, 
Lo !  thus  began  my  care. 
Alack,  &c. 

Nothing  wanting  in  her. 
But  this  the  grief  of  all. 

Of  birth  she  was  but  lowly, 
Of  substance  very  small ; 

A  simple  hired  servant, 
And  subject  to  each  call. 
Alack,  &c. 

18 


138 

Yet  she  was  my  pleasure, 
My  joy  and  heart's  dehght, 

More  rich  than  any  treasure, 
More  precious  in  my  sight ! 

At  length  to  one  another 
Our  promise  we  did  plight. 
Alack,  &c. 

And  thus  unto  my  father. 
The  thing  I  did  reveal. 

Desiring  of  his  favour, 
Nothing  I  did  conceal. 

But  he  my  dear  affection 
Regarded  ne'er  a  deal. 
Alack,  &c. 

Quoth  he.  Thou  graceless  fellow. 
Thou  art  my  only  heir, 

And  for  thy  own  preferment 
Has  thou  no  better  care. 

To  marry  with  a  beggar. 

That  is  both  poor  and  bare  ? 
Alack,  &c. 


139 

I  charge  thee  on  my  blessing, 
Thou  do  her  sight  refrain, 

And  that  into  her  company 
You  never  come  again  ; 

That  you  should  be  so  married 
I  take  it  in  disdain. 
Alack,  &c. 

Is  there  so  many  gentlemen. 
Of  worship  and  degree, 

That  have  most  honest  daughters. 
Of  beauty  fair  and  free  ; 

And  can  none  but  a  beggar's  brat 
Content  and  pleasure  thee  ? 
Alack,  &c. 

By  Him  that  made  all  creatures 
This  vow  to  thee  I  make. 

If  thou  do  not  this  beggar 
Refuse  and  quite  forsake. 

From  thee  thy  due  inheritance 
I  wholly  mean  to  take. 
Alack,  &c. 


140 

These,  his  bitter  speeches, 
Did  sore  torment  my  mind. 

Knowing  well  how  greatly 
He  was  to  wrath  inclin'd. 

My  heart  was  slain  with  sorrow, 
No  comfort  I  could  find. 
Alack,  &c. 

Then  did  I  write  a  letter. 
And  send  it  to  my  dear. 

Wherein  my  first  afiection 
All  changed  did  appear ; 

Which  from  her  fair  eyes  forc'd 
The  pearl'd  water  clear. 
Alack,  &c. 

For  grief,  unto  the  messenger 
One  word  she  could  not  speak. 

Those  doleful  heavy  tidings 
Her  gentle  heart  did  break ; 

Yet  sought  not  by  her  speeches 
On  me  her  heart  to  wreak. 
Alack,  &c. 


141 

This  deed  within  my  conscience 
Tormented  me  full  sore. 

To  think  upon  the  promise 
I  made  her  long  before  ; 

And  for  the  true  performance 
How  1  most  deeply  swore. 
Alack,  &c. 

I  could  not  be  in  quiet 

Till  1  to  her  did  go. 
Who  for  my  sake  remained 

In  sorrow,  grief,  and  wo ; 
And  unto  her  in  secret 

My  full  intent  to  show. 
Alack,  &c. 

My  sight  rejoiced  greatly 
Her  sad  perplexed  heart. 

From  both  her  eyes  on  sudden 
The  trickling  tears  did  start. 

And  in  each  other's  bosom 
We  breathed  forth  our  smart. 
Alack,  &c. 


142 

Unknown  unto  my  father, 

Or  any  friend  beside, 
Ourselves  we  closely  married, 

She  was  my  only  bride ; 
Yet  still  within  her  service 

I  caus'd  her  to  abide. 
Alack,  &c. 

But  never  had  two  lovers 

More  sorrow,  care,  and  grief. 

No  means  in  our  extremity 
We  found  for  our  relief; 

And  now  what  further  happened 
Here  foloweth  in  brief. 
Alack,  &c. 

Now  all  ye  loyal  lovers. 

Attend  unto  the  rest, 
See  by  ray  secret  marriage 

How  sore  I  am  opprest ; 
For  why,  my  foul  misfortune 

Herein  shall  be  exprest. 
Alack,  &c. 


143 

My  father  came  unto  me, 

Upon  a  certain  day, 
And  with  a  merry  countenance 

These  words  to  me  did  say : 
My  son,  quoth  he,  come  hither. 

And  mark  what  I  shall  say. 
Alack,  &c. 

Seeing  you  are  disposed 

To  lead  a  wedded  life, 
I  have,  unto  your  credit. 

Provided  you  a  wife. 
Where  thou  may'st  live  dehghtful 

Without  all  care  and  strife. 
Alack,  &c. 

Master  Senock's  daughter. 
Most  beautiful  and  wise, 

Three  hundred  pounds  her  portion 
May  well  thy  mind  suffice. 

And  by  her  friends  and  kindred 
Thou  mayst  to  credit  rise. 
Alack,  &c. 


144 

This  is,  my  son,  undoubted, 
A  match  for  thee  most  meet ; 

She  is  a  proper  maiden. 
Most  dehcate  and  sweet ; 

Go  woo  her  then,  and  wed  her, 
I  shall  rejoice  to  see't. 
Alack,  &c. 

Her  friends  and  I  have  talked. 
And  thereon  have  agreed. 

Then  be  not  thou  abashed. 
But  speedily  proceed ; 

Thou  shalt  be  entertained. 

And  leave,  no  doubt,  to  speed. 
Alack,  &c. 

O,  pardon  me,  dear  father. 
With  bashful  looks,  I  said. 

To  enter  into  marriage 
I  sorely  am  afraid ; 

A  single  life  is  lovely. 

Therein  my  mind  is  staid. 
Alack,  &c. 


145 

When  he  had  heard  my  speech, 

His  anger  did  arise, 
He  drove  me  from  his  presence, 

My  sight  he  did  despise, 
And  straight  to  disinherit  me 

All  means  he  did  devise. 
Alack,  &c. 

When  I  perceived  myself 
In  that  iU  case  to  stand, 

Most  lev^^dly  I  consented 
Unto  his  fond  demand. 

And  married  with  the  other, 
And  all  to  save  my  land. 
Alack,  &c. 

And  at  this  hapless  marriage 

Great  cost  my  friends  did  keep, 
They  spared  not  their  poultry. 
Their  oxen,  nor  their  sheep. 
Whilst  joyfully  they  danced, 
I  did  in  corners  weep. 
Alack,  &c. 

19 


146 

My  conscience  was  tormented. 
Which  did  my  joys  deprive, 

Yet  for  to  hide  my  sorrow 

My  thoughts  did  always  strive ; 

Q,uoth  I,  what  shame  vdll  it  be, 
To  have  two  wives  ahve. 
Alack,  &c. 

O,  my  sweet  Margaret, 

I  did  in  sorrow  say. 
Thou  know'st  not  in  thy  service. 

Of  this  my  marriage-day ; 
Though  here  my  body  resteth, 

With  thee  my  heart  doth  stay ! 
Alack,  &c. 

Saying,  why  doth  my  true  love 
,    So  sadly  here  abide, 
And  in  my  meditations 

Came  in  my  lovely  bride, 
With  chains  and  jewels  trimmed, 

And  silken  robes  beside. 
Alack,  &c. 


147 

Yet  twenty  lovely  kisses 

She  did  on  me  bestow, 
And  forth  abroad  a- walking 

This  lovely  maid  did  go  ; 
Yea,  arm  in  arm  most  friendly,  A 

With  him  that  was  her  foe. 
Alack,  &c. 

But  when  that  I  had  brought  her 
Where  nobody  was  near, 

I  embrac'd  her  most  falsely,      '^  2 
With  a  most  feigned  chear,^' 

Unto  the  heart  I  stabbed 
This  maiden  fair  and  clear. 
Alack,  &c. 

Myself  in  woeful  manner 
I  wounded  with  a  knife. 

And  laid  myself  down  by  her. 
By  this  my  married  wife  ; 

And  said,  that  thieves  to  rob  us 
Had  wrought  this  deadly  strife. 
Alack,  &c. 


148 

Great  wailing  and  great  sorrow 
Was  then  upon  each  side, 

In  woeful  sort  they  buried 
This  fair  and  comely  bride, 

And  my  dissimulation 

Herein  was  quickly  try'd. 
Alack,  &c. 

And  for  this  cruel  murder 
To  death  thus  I  am  brought, 

For  this  my  aged  father 

Did  end  his  days  in  nought ; 

My  Margaret  at  these  tidings 
Her  own  destruction  wrought. 
Alack,  &c. 

Lo  here  the  doleful  peril 
Blind  fancy  brought  me  in, 

And  mark  what  care  and  sorrow 
Forc'd  marriage  doth  bring ; 

All  men  by  me  be  warned. 
And  Lord  forgive  my  sin. 

Alack,  for  my  love  I  must  die  ! 


149 


fe««^5^Sd!^fee<D(l 


JONE  O'  GREENFIELD'S  RAMBLE. 


A  CURIOUS  and  popular  Lancashire  song,  said  to  be  more  than  a 
century  old.  It  is  here  taken  from  Mr.  Dixon's  '  Ancient  Poems,' 
p.  217,  who  says,  "it  is  the  oldest  Lancashire  song  the  editor  has 
been  able  to  procure,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  popular;  and 
from  its  being  witty  without  being  vulgar,  has  ever  been  a  favorite 
with  all  classes  of  society." 


CI  AYS  Jone  to  his  wife,  on  a  hot  summer's  day, 

I'm  resolv'd  i'  Grinfilt  no  lunger  to  stay ; 
For  I'll  go  to  Owdham  os  fast  os  I  can. 
So  fare  thee  weel,  Grinfilt,  un  fare  thee  weel.  Nan; 
A  soger  I'U  be,  un  brave  Owdham  I'll  see, 
Un  I'll  ha'e  a  battle  wi'  the  French. 

Dear  Jone,  then  said  Nan,  un  hoo  bitterly  cried. 
Wilt'  be  one  o'  the  foote,  or  the  meons  to  ride  ? 
Odsounds !  wench,  I'll  ride  oather  ass  or  a  mule, 
Ere  I'll  kewer  i'  Grinfilt  os  black  as  te  dule, 
Boath  clemmink  un  starvink,  un  never  a  fardink 
Ecod  !  it  would  drive  ony  mon  mad. 


150 

Aye,  Jone,  sin'  we  coom  i'  Grinfilt  for  t'  dwell, 
We'n  had  mony  a  bare  meal,  I  con  vara  weel  teU; 
Bare  meal !  ecod !  aye,  that  I  vara  weel  know. 
There's  bin  two  days  this  wick  ot  we'n  had  nowt 
at  o : 
I'm  vara  near  sided,  afore  I'U  abide  it, 
I'll  feight  oather  Spanish  or  French. 

Then  says  my  aunt  Marget,  Ah !  Jone,  thee'rt 
so  hot, 

I'd  ne'er  go  to  Owdham,  boh  i'  Englond  I'd  stop  ; 

It  matters  nowt,  Madge,  for  to  Owdham  I'll  go, 

I'll  naw  clam  to  deeoth,  boh  sumbry  shalt  know  : 
Furst  Frenchman  I  find,  I'll  tell  him  meh  mind, 
Un  if  he'll  naw  feight,  he  shall  run. 

Then  down  th'  broo  I  coom,  for  we  livent  at  top, 
I  thowt  I'd  reach  Owdham  ere  ever  I'd  stop ; 
Ecod!  heaw  they  stared  when  I  getten  to  th' 

Mumps, 
Meh  owd  hat  i'  my  bond,  un  meh  clogs  full  o' 
stumps ; 
Boh  I  soon  towd  um,  I'r  gooink  to  Owdham, 
Un  I'd  ha'e  a  battle  wi'  the  French. 


151 

1  kept  eendway  thro'  th'  lone,  un  to  Owdham  I 

went, 
I  ask'd  a  recruit  if  te'd  make  up  their  keawnt  ? 
No,  no,  honest  lad  (for  he  tawked  like  a  king). 
Go  wi'  meh  thro'  the  street,  un  thee  I  will  bring 
Where,  if  theaw'rt  willink,  theaw  may  ha'e  a 

shiUink. 
Ecod !  I  thowt  this  wur  rare  news. 

He  browt  me  to  th'  pleck  where  te  measurn 

their  height,  [weight ; 

Un  if  they  bin  height,  there's  nowt  said  about 

I  retched  me,  un  stretched  me,  un  never  did 

flinch,  [inch : 

Says  the  mon,  I  believe  theawr't  meh  lad  to  an 

1  thowt  this'll  do,  I'st  ha'e  guineas  enow, 

Ecod  !  Owdham,  brave  Owdham  for  me. 

So  fare  thee  weel  Grinfilt,  a  soger  I'm  made, 
I'n  getten  new  shoon,  un  a  rare  cockade ; 
I'll  feight  for  Owd  Englond  os  hard  os  I  con, 
Oather  French,  Dutch,  or  Spanish,  to  me  it's  o  one 
I'll  make  'em  to  stare  like  a  new-started  hare, 
Un  I'll  teU  'em  fro'  Owdham  I  coom. 


152 


THE  OLD  MAN  OUTWITTED. 


A  CURIOUS  metrical  tale,  popular  in  the  North  of  England.  It 
was  probably  written  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  but  the 
earliest  copy  of  it  I  have  seen  is  in  a  chap-book  not  more  than  fifty 
years  old.  We  cannot  say  much  for  the  poetry,  but  the  incidents 
are  by  no  means  ungraceful.  Some  copies  lay  the  scene  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  some  near  York. 


T  ET  all  lovers  which  around  me  doth  stand. 
Be  pleas'd  to  give  ear  to  these  lines  I  have 

penn'd. 
And  vrhen  you  have  heard  them,  I  am  sure  you 

will  say 
It's  a  medicine  to  drive  melancholy  away. 

It's  of  an  ancient  farmer  near  Chester  did  dwell, 
Whose  name  at  the  present  I  mean  not  to  tell ; 
He  had  an  only  daughter,  both  charming  and  fair, 
She  quickly  was  drawn  into  Cupid's  snare. 


153 

Her  father  indeed  kept  a  servant  man 
For  to  do  his  business,  his  name  it  was  John ; 
The  maid  was  smitten  with  each  glance  of  his  eye, 
That  she  never  was  easy  out  of  his  company. 

They  often  together  in  private  would  walk 
Alone  in  the  garden,  and  pleasantly  talk. 
But  pray  give  attention,  and  soon  you  shall  hear 
How  this  passion  oft  brought  them  into  a  snare. 

Her  father  one  night  to  the  window  had  got, 
Just  over  the  place  where  these  two  lovers  sat, 
And  heard  every  word  that  between  them  was  said. 
By  which  this  unfortunate  youth  was  betray 'd. 

My  dear,  said  the  young  man,  my  love  it  is  true, 
And  I  have  set  my  affections  on  you ; 
I  hope  you'll  remember  the  vows  that  are  past, 
And  woe  be  to  them  who  our  comforts  shall  blast ! 

The  maiden  immediately  fell  on  her  knee. 
And  said.  If  ever  I  prove  the  ruin  of  thee. 
May  all  that  I  act  in  the  world  never  thrive. 
Nor  I  ever  prosper  while  I  am  alive. 

20 


154 

The  old  man  retired  then  with  a  frown, 
With  a  heart  full  inflamed  he  sat  himself  down, 
Contriving  some  way  for  to  part  the  young  pair. 
And  how  it  was  acted  you  quickly  shall  hear. 

Next  morning  right  early  he  call'd  his  man  John, 
And  when  that  he  into  the  parlour  did  come, 
He  said,  I  am  bound  for  London,  and  that  speedily ; 
Speak  up,  are  you  willing  to  go  along  with  me  ? 

Dear  honour'd  sir,  the  young  man  reply'd. 
The  thing  you  require  shall  not  be  deny'd ; 
But  in  your  journey  I  attentive  shall  be. 
Because  I  am  willing  that  city  to  see. 

Next  morning  for  London  they  then  did  steer. 
And  soon  did  arrive  at  that  city  we  hear. 
Let  innocent  lovers  be  pleased  to  wait. 
The  truth  of  this  subject  I  soon  shall  relate. 

Next  morning  the  old  man  early  arose. 
And  privately  to  a  sea  captain  he  goes. 
Saying,  Sir,  I  am  told  you  want  lads  for  the  sea. 
And  I  have  got  a  lad  that  will  fit  to  a  tee. 


155 

Here's  thirty  bright  guineas  I'll  freely  give  thee, 
If  you  can  contrive  to  take  him  to  sea, 
That  he  never  more  to  old  England  may  come. 
A  match,  said  the  Captain,  the  same  shall  be  done. 

A  pressgang  immediately  up  to  him  vs^ent. 
And  having  secur'd  him,  on  board  he  vs^as  sent. 
In  tears  to  lament  on  the  said  roaring  main, 
Never  expecting  more  to  see  his  love  again. 

That  day  after  dinner  it  happened  so. 

That  the  Captain's  lady  on  board  she  v^^ould  go, 

Walking  the  deck  her  fair  face  for  to  fan, 

And  casting  her  eyes  down  did  see  this  young  man 

Sit  close  in  a  corner,  with  eyes  full  of  tears. 
His  face  pale  as  ashes,  and  heart  full  of  fears ; 
Which  sight  fill'd  the  lady  with  such  discontent, 
That  away  to  the  Captain  that  minute  she  went. 

Saying,  What  youth  is  that,  love?  prithee,  tell  me, 

Because  that  he  sitteth  so  melancholy. 

The  Captain  straight  call'd  him,  the  young  man 

he  came 
With  tears  in  his  face,  then  he  asked  his  name. 


156 


He  told  him  his  name  with  many  a  tear, 
Likewise  the  cause  of  his  coming  there ; 
From  the  truth  of  his  love  his  ruin  did  rise, 
Which  drew  many  tears  from  the  young  lady's  eyes. 

She  begged  for  his  liberty  straight  on  her  knee. 
The  Captain  did  with  her  petition  agree. 
He  likewise  return' d  him  ten  guineas  of  gold, 
And  gave  him  his  freedom,  and  farther  behold — 

Saying,  Get  you  to  Smithfield  away  in  a  trice, 
And  buy  you  a  nag  about  five  guineas  price. 
Get  home  before  your  master,  now  luck's  in 

your  hands, 
And  marry  his  daughter  to  make  him  amends. 

The  young  man  return'd  his  compliment, 
And,  taking  his  leave,  to  Smithfield  he  went. 
Where  he  bought  him  a  steed,  and  home  did  repair; 
Now  the  cream  of  the  jest  be  pleased  to  hear. 

Coming  to  his  jewel,  he  told  her  in  brief 
The  cause  of  his  sorrow,  trouble,  and  grief. 
And  when  she  had  heard  it,  she  quickly  agreed. 
And  early  next  morning  they  married  indeed. 


157 

When  they  were  married,  the  young  man  did  say, 
Go  you  to  my  father's  without  more  delay, 
And  I'll  tarry  here  a  fancy  to  try : 
And  how  it  was  acted  you'll  hear  by  and  by. 

The  bride  being  gone,  to  her  chamber  he  goes. 
Pulls  off  his  coat,  and  puts  on  her  clothes. 
And  sets  himself  down  by  the  fire  to  spin, 
Just  as  he  was  acting  the  old  man  came  in. 

He  lights  from  his  horse  and  secured  the  same, 
And  into  the  house  he  immediately  came. 
Saying,  Now,  handsome  daughter,  I've  taken  care 
To  break  the  intrigues  betwixt  you  and  your  dear. 

I've  seen  him  far  enough  away  from  the  shore. 
Where  waves  do  foam  and  the  billows  roar ; 
You  may  now  seek  another  as  fast  as  you  please, 
But  as  for  your  old  love,  I've  sent  him  to  the  seas. 

The  young  man  immediately  fell  to  the  ground, 
Pretending  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  swoon ; 
In  a  passion  then  smiting  his  hands  on  his  side. 
What  have  you  done,  cruel  master?  he  cried. 


158 

Master !  with  a  vengeance,  the  old  man  reply' d. 
Yes,  yes,  you'r  my  master,  the  young  man  he  cried ; 
Oh,  pray  be  but  easy,  and  to  you  I'll  tell 
The  saddest  misfortune  that  ever  befel. 

When  my  mistress  heard  I  to  London  must  go. 
She  crav'd,  nay,  begg'd  and  intreated  me  so. 
To  be  dressed  in  my  clothes  for  to  go  with  yow, 
Because  she  had  a  mind  that  city  to  view. 

Adzooks !  says  the  old  man,  what  have  I  done  ? 
I  have  ruined  my  daughter;  oh,  where  shall  I  run? 
The  devil's  bewitched  me  for  coveting  gold. 
The  life  of  my  innocent  daughter  I've  sold. 

The  old  man  ran  raving  away  to  the  barn, 
And  snatching  a  halter  under  his  arm, 
To  a  beam  near  at  hand  he  immediately  ran. 
With  a  rope  round  his  neck  away  he  swung. 

The  young  man  immediately  whipp'd  out  his  knife. 
And  cut  him  down  ere  he  finish'd  his  life. 
Said,  Dear  sir,  have  patience  and  not  complain. 
And  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  to  fetch  her  again. 


159 

The  old  man  he  star'd  hke  a  fox  in  a  snare. 
Saying,  Bring  my  darhng,  whom  I  love  so  dear. 
And  that  very  minute  you  bring  her  to  town. 
That  moment  I'll  pay  thee  five  hundred  pound.     * 

Nay,  that  is  not  all,  for  to  finish  the  strife, 
I'll  freely  agree  to  make  her  your  wife, 
And  if  that  I  forty  years  longer  remain, 
I  never,  no,  never,  will  cross  her  again. 

The  young  man  reply'd,  I'm  not  free  to  trust ; 
But  if  you  will  give  me  a  writing  first, 
I'll  bring  her,  though  never  such  hazards  I  run. 
A  match,  said  the  old  man,  the  same  shall  be  done. 

He  gave  him  a  bond ;  having  taken  the  same, 
Away  to  the  bride  with  the  writing  he  came. 
And  told  her  the  story  of  what  he  had  done ; 
It  made  the  whole  family  laugh  at  the  fun. 

Next  morning  he  drest  himself  in  his  best  clothes, 
With  his  charming  bride,  like  a  beautiful  rose, 
A  walk  to  their  father's  house  straight  they  did  take, 
And  happened  to  meet  him  just  entering  the  gate. 


160 

They  fell  on  their  knees,  and  his  blessing  did 

crave. 
The  which  he  presently  unto  them  gave  ; 
Then,  kissing  his  daughter,  he  turn'd  to  his  son. 
Saying,  John,  you  have  funn'd  me  as  sure  as 

a  gun. 

They  up  from  their  knees,  and  told  him  the  truth. 
He  said.  As  you're  both  in  the  bloom  of  your 

youth, 
I  give  you  my  blessing,  and  for  your  poHcy 
Two  thousand  pounds  you  shall  have  when  I  die. 

You  lovers  in  Britain,  whoever  you  be 
That  read  these  few  hues,  take  counsel  of  me. 
Don't  matter  love's  crosses  though  thick  they  fall. 
For  marriage  shall  soon  make  amends  for  all. 


161 


THE   PROPHECY   OF  NIXON. 

'J'HE  prophecy  of  Nixon  has  so  often  given 
a  name  to  the  production  of  authors  of 
different  principles,  that  it  became  almost 
a  doubt  whether  such  a  person  ever  existed. 
Curious  in  this  inquiry,  passing  through  Cheshire, 
I  spent  some  time  on  the  spot  where  this  fa- 
mous idiot  lived,  and  where  he  told  many  events 
that  would  happen.  Surprised  at  the  credit 
given  to  these  by  the  inhabitants,  I  determined 
to  take  the  particulars  from  their  own  mouths, 
which  I  found  to  agree  pretty  well  with  a 
written  copy  handed  about,  in  a  kind  of  doggerel 
verse.  But  the  original  is  in  the  hands  only  of 
a  few;  that  only  one,  making  eight  sheets  on 
foolscap  paper,  can  be  remembered.     But  that 

the  original  is  only  in  the  hands  of  the  C - 

family  is  not  to  be  credited,  since  the  nature  of 
the  prophecy  shows  it  to  have  been  before  the 

21 


162 

Reformation,  when  the  monks  possessed  the 
Abbey  of  Vale  Royal.  The  family  of  Holcroft 
and  the  above  family  did  not  live  there  till 
the  reign  of  Charles  I,  so  that  Nixon  could  never 
live  with  them,  as  asserted  by  Mr.  Oldmixon, 
in  King  James's  reign.  Nor  do  I  pretend  to 
assert  that  this  is  either  the  whole,  or  a  copy 
in  regular  order,  but  such  as  it  is,  came  from 
the  oldest  inhabitants,  and  I  am  particularly 
beholden  to  a  descendant  of  the  name  of  Nixon 
for  several  parts  handed  from  his  forefathers 
down  to  him,  and  till  those  who  are  possessed 
of  the  old  manuscript  choose  to  put  it  into  print, 
I  must  be  allowed  to  have  given  the  largest  and 
most  authentic  edition  of  any  hitherto  published. 
As  to  the  beHef  in  prophecy,  though  so  in 
all  ages,  I  purpose  not  to  enter  into  controversy 
concerning ;  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  should 
events  like  those  ever  come  to  pass,  and  parti- 
cularly now,  when  every  mind  is  big  with  ex- 
pectation of  news  from  a  certain  nation  which 
is  named  in  it,  I  have  done  my  duty  in  timely 
alarming  my  countrymen  who  have  every  ac- 
knowledgment to  make  for  the  present  happy 


163 

establishments,  and  will  no  doubt  exert  all  their 
abilities  in  defence  of  his  present  Majesty  and 
his  royal  issue. 

John,  or  Jonathan,  the  father  of  our  prophet, 
was  a  husbandman,  who  had  the  lease  of  a  farm 
of  the  Abbey  of  Vale  Royal,  to  this  day  known 
by  the  name  of  Bark-  or  Bridge-house,  in  the 
parish  of  Over,  near  Newchurch,  and  not  far 
from  Vale  Royal,  on  the  forest  of  Delamere, 
which  house  is  still  kept  up  and  venerated  by  the 
natives  of  Cheshire,  for  nothing  else  as  I  could 
hear  of  but  this  extraordinary  person's  birth,  who 
was  born  on  Whitsunday,  and  was  christened 
by  the  name  of  Robert,  in  the  year  1467,  about 
the  seventh  year  of  Edward  IV,  who  from  his 
infancy  was  remarkable  for  a  natural  stupidity 
and  invincible  ignorance,  so  that  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  his  parents  could  instruct  him 
to  drive  the  team,  tend  the  cattle,  and  such  sort 
of  rustic  employment.  His  parents  at  their 
decease  left  their  farm  and  our  Robert  very 
young  to  the  care  of  an  elder  brother,  with 
whom  he  first  gave  an  instance  of  that  fore- 
knowledge which  renders  his  name  so  famous./ 


164 

As  he  was  driving  the  team  one  day,  while 
his  brother's  man  guided  the  plough,  he  pricked 
the  ox  so  very  cruelly  with  his  goad,  that  the 
plough-holder  threatened  to  tell  his  master.  On 
which  Nixon  said,  the  ox  should  not  be  his 
brother's  three  days  hence,  which  accordingly 
happened ;  for  a  life  dropping  in  the  estate,  the 
lord  of  the  manor  took  the  same  ox  for  a 
herriot. 

During  his  residence  here,  he  was  chiefly 
distinguished  for  his  simplicity,  seldom  spoke, 
and  when  he  did,  he  had  so  rough  a  voice  that  it 
was  painful  to  hear  him ;  he  was  remarkably 
satirical,  and  what  he  said  had  generally  some 
prophetic  meaning.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
a  monk  of  Vale  Royal  having  displeased  him, 
he  said,  in  an  angry  tone, — 

When  you  the  harrow,  come  on  high, 
Soon  a  raven's  nest  will  be. 

Which  is  well  known  to  have  come  to  pass  in 
the  person  of  the  last  abbot  of  that  place,  whose 
name  was   Harrow.     Being   called   before   Sir 


165 

Thomas  Holcroft,  who  was  put  to  death  for  deny- 
ing the  supremacy  of  King  Henry  VIII,  who, 
according  to  his  commission,  having  suppressed 
the  abbey,  the  king  gave  the  domain  of  this 
knight  and  his  heirs,  who  bore  a  raven  for  his 
crest. 

At  another  time  he  told  them  that  Norton  and 
Vale  Royal  Abbeys  should  meet  on  Acton  Bridge, 
a  thing  at  that  time  looked  upon  as  improbable ; 
but  those  two  abbeys  being  pulled  down,  the 
stones  were  used  for  that  purpose.  But  what  was 
more  improbable  still,  a  small  thorn  growing  in 
the  abbey-yard  would  become  its  door.  We 
may  easily  guess  no  one  thought  this  would  ever 
come  to  pass,  especially  as  it  was  understood  by 
every  one  at  that  time  that  thorns  never  grew 
so  large  ;  but  this  shows  the  uncertain  meaning 
of  our  prophecy;  what  we  understood  one  way, 
possibly  is  meant  quite  different;  so  it  happened 
in  this  case,  for  at  the  Reformation,  the  savage 
ravagers,  who,  under  the  sanction  of  religion, 
sought  nothing  but  rapine  and  plunder  to  enrich 
themselves,  and  who,  under  a  name  of  banishing 
superstition  and  pulling  down  idolatry,   spared 


166 

not  even  the  most  venerable  lineaments  of  anti- 
quity, the  most  sacred   piles,   the  most  noble 
structures,  or  most  valuable  records ;  books  wrote 
by  our  most  venerable  forefathers  and  heroic 
ancestors ;  pieces  of  the  nicest  paint,  or  figures 
for  their  w^orkmanship,  all  being  lost,  irrecover- 
ably lost,  in  one  common  fit  of  destructive  zeal, 
which  every  hue  and  cry  is  too  apt  to  raise  in 
the  breast  of  a  hot-headed  bigot,  whilst  the  truly 
rehgious,  honest,  and  learned  men  regret  to  this 
very  day  the  loss  those  destructive  times  have 
occasioned ;  whilst  these  reached  Vale  Royal, 
amongst  the  rest,  this  thorn  being  cut  down  and 
cast  in  the   doorway,  to  prevent   sheep  which 
grazed  in  the   court  from  going  in.     But  the 
Reformation  he  declares  in  still  plainer  terms, 
for  he  says, — 

A  time  shall  come  when  priests  and  monks 

Shall  have  no  churches  nor  houses, 

And  places  where  images  stood. 

Lined  letters  shall  be  good, 

English  books  through  churches  are  spread, 

There  shall  be  no  holy  bread. 


167 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  recite  every  particular 
it  is  said  he  foretold,  which  either  regard  private 
families  or  past  occasions ;  however,  it  may  not 
be  amiss  to  mention  what  is  fresh  in  one's  me- 
mory who  lives  near  Delamere  Forest,  and  was 
vouched  to  me  by  several  of  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tants : 

Through  Weaver  Hall  shall  be  a  lone,* 
Rideley  pool  shall  be  sown  and  mown. 
And  Darnel  park  shall  be  hack'd  and  hewn. 

The  two  wings  of  Weaver  Hall  are  now  stand- 
ing, and  between  them  is  a  cart-road ;  Rideley 
pool  is  filled  up,  and  made  good  meadow  land  ; 
and  in  Darnel  park  the  trees  are  cut  down,  and 
made  pasture  ground. 

I  was  also  assured  he  foretold  the  use  of 
broad  wheels,  &c.,  and  that  North wich,  now  a 
considerable  town  of  trade  for  salt,  will  be  de- 
stroyed by  waters,  which  is  expected  to  come  to 
pass  by  the  natives  of  Cheshire  as  much  as  any 
other  part  of  his  prophecy  has  done ;  and  some 

*  That  is,  a  lane.     This  is  a  north-country  pronunciation  of 
the  word. 


168 

urge  that  the  navigable  cuts  now  making  is  the 
water  meant,  but  whether  a  prejudice  against 
those  useful  employments  may  not  have  given 
rise  for  this  notion,  time  only  can  determine. 
But  what  rendered  Nixon  the  most  noticed  was, 
that  at  the  time  wheh  the  battle  of  Bosworth- 
field  was  fought  between  King  Richard  III  and 
King  Henry  VII,   he  stopped  his  team  on  a 
sudden,  and  with  his  whip  pointing  from  one 
hand  to  the  other,  cried,  "  Now  Richard,  now 
Harry,"  several  times,  till  at  last  he  said,  "Now 
Harry,  get  over  the  ditch,  and  you  gain    the 
day."    The  plough-holder,  amazed,  related  what 
had  passed  when  he  came  home,  and  the  truth 
of  the  prediction  was  verified  by  special  mes- 
sengers sent  to  every  part  to  announce  the  pro- 
clamation of  Henry,  King  of  England,  on  the 
field  of  battle.     The  messenger  who  went  this 
circuit  related  on  his  return  the  prediction  of 
Nixon    concerning   the  king's    success,   which, 
though  it  had  been  confirmed  by  his  arrival,  had 
made  it  no  news  to  the  natives  of  those  parts. 
Henry,  perhaps  the  wisest  prince  of  that  time, 
not  willing  to  be  deceived,  nor  yet  doubting  the 


169 

dispensations    of    Providence,    though    by   the 
mouth  of  a  fool,  sent  the  same  messenger  back 
to  find  Nixon  and  bring  him  before  him ;  at  the 
moment  the  king  gave  his  orders,  our  prophet 
was  in  the  town  of  Over,  about  which  he  ran 
like  a  madman,  declaring  the  king  had  sent  for 
him,  and  that  he  must  go  to  court,  and  there  be 
clemmed,  i.  e.  starved  to  death ;  such  declara- 
tion occasioned  a  great  deal  of  laughter  in  the 
town,  to  think  that  his  Majesty,  so  noted  for  his 
wisdom,  should  send  for  a  dirty  drivelhng  clown 
to  court,  and  that  being  sent  for  he  should  fear 
to  be  starved  there ;  but  how  great  was  their 
surprise  in  a  few  days,  when    the    messenger 
passed  through  the  town,  demanded  a  guide  to 
find  Nixon,  who  then  was  turning  the  spit  at  his 
brother's  at  the  bakehouse,  crying,  "He  is  coming, 
he  is  now  on  the  road  for  me !"  but  the  asto- 
nishment of  this  family  can  scarcely  be  imagined, 
when  on  the  messenger's  arrival,  he  demanded 
Nixon  in  the  king's  name  ;  the  people  who  be- 
fore scoflfed  at  his  simple  appearance  and  odd 
sayings,   and  pointed   to  the  very  children  to 
make  him  their  sport,  were  now  confounded  to 

22 


170 

find   the  most  ridiculous  of   all   he  had   fore- 
told (in  their  opinion)  became  a  truth,  which 
was  vouched  to  their  own  eyes ;  whilst  hurried 
through  the  country  Nixon  still  loudly  lamented 
that  he  was  going  to  be  starved  at  court.     He 
had  no  sooner  arrived  there,  than  the  cm-ious 
king,  willing  to  make  trial  of  his   foreknow- 
ledge, devised  the  following  scheme  to  prove  it. 
Having  hid  a  valuable  diamond  ring  which  he 
commonly  wore,  after  the  most  seemingly  strict 
inquiry  made  through  the  palace  whether  any 
one  had  seen  it,  he  sent  for  Nixon,  teUing  him 
what  a  loss  he  had  sustained,  and  that  if  he 
could  not  help  him  to  find  it,  he  had  no  hopes 
left.     But  how  much  surprised  was  the  king 
when  he  got  for  an  answer  the  old  proverb, — 

"  He  who  hides  can  find ;" 

On  which  he  declared  with  a  smile,  that  he  had 
done  this  only  to  try  the  prophet;  but  ever 
after  ordered  what  he  said  should  be  carefully 
took  in  writing. 

To  prevent  Nixon  from  being  starved,   his 


171 

Majesty  gave  orders  for  him  to  have  the  hberty 
to  range  through  the  whole  place,  and  the 
kitchen  to  be  his  most  constant  dwelling.  Be- 
sides which,  an  officer  was  appointed  to  take 
care  that  he  was  neither  misused  or  affronted 
by  the  servants,  nor  at  a  loss  for  any  necessary 
of  hfe.  Thus  situated,  one  would  have  thought 
want  could  never  have  reached  him ;  yet  one 
day,  as  the  king  was  going  to  his  hunting-seat, 
Nixon  ran  to  him,  crying,  begged  in  the  most 
moving  terms  that  he  might  not  be  left,  for  that 
if  he  were,  his  Majesty  would  never  see  him 
again  alive,  that  he  should  be  starved ;  now  was 
the  time  that  if  he  was  left  he  must  die.  The 
king,  whose  thoughts  were  doubtless  fixed  on 
the  diversion  he  was  going  to,  and  supposing 
the  matter  at  that  time  so  very  unlikely  to  come 
to  pass,  only  said  it  would  be  impossible,  and 
recommended  him  strongly  to  the  officer's  care; 
but  scarcely  was  the  king  gone  from  the  palace 
gate  when  the  servants  mocked  and  teased 
Nixon  to  such  a  degree,  that  the  officer,  to  pre- 
vent those  results,  locked  him  up  in  a  closet, 
and  suffered  no  one  but  himself  to  attend  him, 


172 

thinking  he  should  prevent  this  part  of  his  pro- 
phecy from  coming  true ;  but  a  messenger  of 
importance  came  from  the  king  to  this  very 
officer,  he,  in  his  readiness  to  obey  the  royal  com- 
mand, forgot  to  set  poor  Nixon  at  liberty,  and 
though  he  was  but  three  days  absent,  when  he 
recollected  his  prisoner,  found  him  at  his  return 
dead,  as  he  had  foretold,  of  hunger. 

Thus  evidenced  by  what  is  expressed  stands 
his  prophecy  in  every  mouth  in  Cheshire,  yet  a 
greater  affront  cannot  be  given  than  to  ask  a 
copy  from  the  families  said  to  be  possessed  of  it. 
Every  means,  it  is  well  known,  has  been  used  to 
smother  the  truth,  perplex  the  curious,  and  ever 
abolish  the  very  remembrance  that  such  a  one 
ever  existed ;  but  from  what  reason  cannot  ap- 
pear, except  that  it  foretold  the  heir  of  O is 

to  meet  with  some  ignominious  death  at  his  own 
gate,  with  other  family  events,  which,  though 
no  person  or  time  being  particularly  distin- 
guished, may  perhaps  occasion  the  secrecy. 

I  must  also  observe  that  the  cross  on  Delamere 
Forest,  that  is,  the  three  steps  and  the  socker  on 
which  the  cross  formerly  stood,  are  now  sunk 


173 

within  a  few  inches  of  the  ground,  though  all 
rememhered  to  have  been  seen,  in  the  me- 
mory of  man,  near  six  feet  above ;  the  cross 
itself  having  been  destroyed  long  since.  It  is 
remarkable  this  headless  cross  is  mentioned  by 
Merlin  de  Rymer  and  most  other  English  and 
Scotch  prophets,  as  the  last  place  in  England  on 
which  it  is  supposed  a  decisive  action  will  hap- 
pen, but  as  to  any  fixed  period  when  the  things 
will  come  to  pass  I  cannot  learn,  all  things 
mentioned  with  ,the  greatest  uncertainty ;  nor 
is  the  story  of  the  miller  and  the  boy,  which 
Mr.  Oldmixon  tells  us,  to  be  depended  on.  Since 
such  prodigies  in  birth  have  happened  more  than 
once  in  those  parts,  and  as  to  comments  or  notes, 
I  shall  differ  in  that  particular  from  former 
writers,  so  much  as  to  leave  them  to  my  readers 
to  make  for  themselves. 


Nixon's  reputation  has  endured  to  the  present 
day,  and  the  illustrious  Samuel  Weller  conde- 
scends to  allude  to  his  history.     "Veil,  now," 


174 

said  Sam,  "you've  been  a  prophecyin'  avay 
wery  fine,  like  a  red-faced  Nixon,  as  the  six- 
penny books  gives  picturs  on."  Some  copies 
add  the  following  predictions,  kindly  supplying 
the  facts  of  their  fulfilment.  Thus  the  "  favorite 
of  a  king,"  alludes  to  the  assassination  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  by  Felton  ;  the  "  men  of 
the  north,  who  sold  precious  blood,"  are  the 
Scots ;  the  "  noble  warrior"  was  the  Duke  of 
Montrose  ;  the  physical  troubles  at  "  the  depar- 
ture of  a  great  man's  soul"  allude  to  the  storm 
which  occurred  at  the  death  of  Cromwell ;  and 
the  event  of  the  spots  and  fire  to  the  plague  and 
fire  of  London.  But  so  remarkable  a  document 
must  not  be  omitted,  and  we  therefore  give  our 
readers  the  opportunity  of  examining  the  merits 
of  the  prophecy. 

The  famous  Cheshire  prophet  Nixon,  besides 
his  prophecies  relative  to  the  fate  of  private 
families,  also  predicted  much  of  public  affairs, 
which  we  find  hterally  verified  by  the  sequel. 

On  the  Christmas  before  he  went  to  court, 
being  among  the  servants  of  Mr.  Cholmondley's 


175 

house,  to  the  surprise  of  them  all,  he  suddenly 
started  up,  and  said  : 

"  I  must  prophecy."  He  went  on  :  "If  the 
favorite  of  a  king  shall  he  slain,  the  master's 
neck  shall  be  cleft  in  twain ;  and  the  men  of  the 
north  shall  sell  precious  blood,  yea,  their  own 
blood,  and  they  shall  sacrifice  a  noble  warrior  to 
the  idol,  and  hang  up  his  flesh  in  the  high  places. 
And  a  storm  shall  come  out  of  the  north,  which 
shall  blow  down  the  steeples  of  the  south,  and 
the  labourer  shall  rise  above  his  master,  and  the 
harvest  shall  in  part  be  trampled  down  by  horses, 
and  the  remainder  lie  waste  to  be  devoured  by 
birds. 

"  When  an  oak-tree  shall  be  softer  than  men's 
hearts,  then  look  for  better  times,  but  they  be 
but  beginning. 

"The  departure  of  a  great  man's  soul  shall 
trouble  a  river  hard  by,  and  overthrow  trees, 
houses,  and  estates.  From  that  part  of  the 
house  from  whence  the  mischief  came  you  must 
look  for  the  cure.  First  comes  joy,  then  sor- 
row ;  after  mirth  comes  mourning. 

"  I  see  men,  women,  and  children  spotted  like 


176 

beasts,  and  their  nearest  and  dearest  friends 
affrighted  at  them.  I  see  towns  on  fire  and  in- 
nocent blood  shed ;  but  when  men  and  horses 
walk  upon  the  water,  then  shall  come  peace  and 
plenty  to  the  people ;  but  trouble  is  preparing 
for  kings  :  and  the  great  yellow  fruit  shall  come 
over  to  this  country  and  flourish ;  and  I  see  this 
tree  take  deep  root,  and  spread  into  a  thousand 
branches,  which  shall  afterwards  be  at  strife  one 
with  another,  because  of  their  numbers,  and  there 
shall  come  a  wind  from  the  south,  and  the  west, 
which  shall  shake  the  tree.  I  see  multitudes  of 
people  running  to  and  fro,  and  talking  in  a 
strange  tongue.  And  there  shall  be  a  famine  in 
the  midst  of  great  plenty,  and  earthquakes  and 
storms  shall  level  and  purify  the  earth." 

After  these  sa3n[ngs,  which  every  one,  with 
the  slightest  knowledge  of  our  history,  will  in- 
stantly apply  to  those  events  which  they  so 
wonderfully  foretold,  Nixon  was  silent,  and  re- 
lapsed into  his  wonted  stupidity,  from  which  he 
did  not  recover  until  many  weeks  after,  when 
he  became  again  inspired,  and  gave  vent  to 
those  remarkable  predictions  which  were  col- 


177 

lected  by  Mr.  Oldmixon.  Those  which  we  have 
just  now  related  were  taken  down  from  the  pro- 
phet's mouth  by  the  steward,  in  pursuance  of 
the  orders  of  Mr.  Cholmondely  himself,  and  the 
original  manuscript  is  now  in  the  hands  of  a 
gentleman  in  Shropshire. 


EPITAPH    FOR    JANE    FOXE. 


From  a  MS.  of  the  Sixteenth  Century. 


An  Epitaphe  for  Jane  the  wiffe  of  Walter  Fooce, 
Marchaunt  Venterer  in  the  Cittie  of  Chester, 
decessid  an"  1575, 

TN  dreadinge  doubtes  of  sundrie  sortes 

Report  aryvd  me  bye. 
And  urged  mee  wryte  the  vertues  rare 

Whiche  now  in  erthe  must  lye. 
Lamente,  therfore,  and  mourne  withe  mee, 

Yee  wemen  hear  about. 
The  screekinge  showtes,  the  grevous  gronnes. 

And  rwe  the  cryinge  out 

23 


178 

Of  Walter  Fox  for  his  good  wief, 

His  babes  for  their  good  mother. 
The  lampe  of  Ught,  the  carkinge  care, 

That  sholde  have  beene  their  succoure. 
Alas  !  sweete  babes,  now  have  they  lost 

Their  lovinge  mother  Jane ; 
What  though  the  earthe  must  hyde  her  corps, 

Yt  shall  not  hyde  her  fame. 
Descended  of  an  honest  race. 

As  all  the  towne  dothe  knowe, 
A  frende  to  cache,  a  neihboure  deare, 

And  unto  none  a  foe. 
The  poore  of  Powe  Moore  shall  want 

A  helpe  like  her  in  neede. 
Her  hart,  her  woord,  her  helpinge  hand. 

Their  hongrey  mawes  to  feede. 
A  modest  matrone,  hurting  none 

By  face  ne  yet  by  backe, 
A  doughter  deare,  m"^^  Bavond, 

Of  her  hencefourth  must  lacke. 
A  lovinge  sister  shall  they  want. 

That  yet  her  sisters  are, 
And  in  Hke  sorte  her  brothers  bothe 

Shall  miss  a  phenix  rare. 


179 

Even  as  the  rarst  and  aple  ripst 

Do  the  soonest  fall  from  tree. 
So  dost  thou,  Lord,  amongst  us  heare 

Thy  choise  so  chosen  bee. 
And  so  thou  hast  bereyed  now 

Theise  babes  of  hbertie ; 
O  Lorde,  to  thee  therfore  they  pray, 

Theire  mother  thou  willt  bee 
Insteade  of  her,  whose  soule  thou  hast 

With  thee  past  care  in  rest. 
Thy  will  bee  doone,  O  Lord,  allway. 

For  thy  will  is  the  best ! 
Your  uncles  and  your  auntes  also, 

Beholde  her  fruite  heare  leaste. 
And  have  a  care  for  to  assiste 

Whose  mother  is  bereafte. 
To  theire  greate  misse  and  her  good  happ. 

To  chainge  this  mortall  life. 
From  earth  to  heaven  the  like  I  pray 

For  eitche  good  man  and  wifFe. 


180 


LOVE  VERSES,  Chester,  1576. 


From  a  MS.  of  the  Sixteenth  Century. 

A  Yonge  Gentleman's  Letter  to  a  Gentlewoman, 
whearin  hee  compares  his  love  to  the  Merchaunt, 
and  his  affection  to  the  Shipp.  Writtn  per  F.  C. 
to  I.  B.  the  XX.  of  May,  1576,  at  Chester. 

TN  hope  of  good  successe  to  have, 

The  merchaunt  fraights  his  taeled  shippe; 

Fayre  wyndes,  hye  tydes,  he  still  doth  crave 
To  passe  the  seas  with  many  a  skipp  ; 

And  when  with  kennynge  lande  hee  sees, 

God  send  our  shipp  good  loock !  hee  cryes. 

So  I  by  love  to  you  thus  led. 

Erst  tost  and  turnd  withe  many  a  doubt, 
All  daie  one  fote,  all  night  in  bede, 

Tyll  thus  my  muse  the  waie  found  out 
One  paper  pale  to  paint  the  payne 
My  selly  selfe  dothe  so  sustayne. 


181 

And  when  the  weeryed  merchant  landes 
His  goods  withe  care  for  to  unlode, 

In  venture  stile  his  state  so  stands. 
Whilst  theare  so  farr  hee  maks  abode, 

His  goods  erst  layd  unlodes  againe, 

And  thus  withe  care  dothe  still  remaine. 

So  I  after  asistance  nowe, 

Sutche  as  my  muse  did  helpe  mee  with, 
Performes  my  plighted  secrete  vowe. 

Withe  judge  I  have  with  tryed  truth. 
Unlode  that  lay  in  hid  till  nowe, 
I  teU  you  wheare  and  she  we  you  how. 

This  merchaunt  he  begynnes  to  smyle, 
When  he  hath  uttered  sutch  his  goods, 

He  freighted  had  so  many  a  myle, 
And  passed  so  over  the  floodes  ; 

So  when  in  powch  hee  had  his  fee, 

Hee  smyles,  hee  laughes,  and  who  but  hee? 

Wolde  God  as  hee  I  had  sutche  cause. 
By  your  vouchsavinge  of  this  same  ; 

After  you  have  made  trwe  your  pause, 
I  have  no  doubt  to  purchase  blame : 

And  thus  to  you  I  am  thus  boulde. 

My  heavy e  hart  for  to  unfoulde. 


182 

And  hath  the  merchaunt  then  no  care 
In  forraigne  soyle  for  home  againe  ? 

Yes !  yes !  alwayes  hee  dothe  prepare 
His  shipp  with  fraight  to  enterteigne. 

Shall  I  now,  saie  hee,  all  hath  lost. 

Or  woone  to  will  his  natyve  cost. 

No !  no  !  not  so,  untill  sutche  tyde 
As  this  is  reade  and  also  knowen. 

By  her  who  hath  the  cause  to  gyde. 
That  now  at  lardg  by  this  is  knowen  ; 

Wolde  God  the  shipp  weare  saves  at  home, 

Wolde  God  that  you  and  I  weare  one ! 

Finis  T.  C. 


183 


MRS.  PHCEBE  HARPUR. 


The  following  lines  are  extracted  from  a  collection  of  poems 
made  by  Randal  Holme  early  in  the  Seventeenth  Century,  and 
preserved  in  Harl.  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum. 


Upon  the  name  of  Mrs.    Phoebe  Harpur,  daughter  to 
Mr.  Henry  Harpur  of  Chester,  who  dyed  1639. 

pHCEBE,  thy  name  and  nature  well  agree, 
The  moone  is  changed,  death  hath  eclipsed 
thee ; 
Though  earth  inclose  thee,  Phoebe,  for  a  while, 
And  in  thy  wane,  thy  frends  hopes  did  beguile. 
Yet  ere  longe  tyme  thy  increment  shall  bee 
At  glorius  full,  from  ecclipps  ever  free. 

Per  me.  Rand.  Holme,  10  Dec.  1639. 


184 


SARAH  SOLEY  OF  CHESTER. 


From  Holme's  Collections,  Harl.  MSS. 


Upon  Sarah  Soiey,  longe  staymge  in  the  cuntrey,  and 
eoopected  by  my  wife  and  me. 

C^ADLY  wee  sitt,  Soley,  for  want  of  thee ; 

All  myrth  is  gone  untill  wee  doe  the  see ; 
Restles  thoughts  eich  day  doth  cause  us  mourne, 
Alas !  we  sigh  untill  thy  safe  returne. 
Hast  then,  wee  say,  'tis  true  you  may  beleve, 
Soly,  not  one,  but,  Soley,  we  both  greeve ! 
O  hast,  hast,  hast !  to  make  the  sadd  amends, 
Loe,  this  is  all  the  sole  crye  of  your  frends, 
Eich  one  desires  their  love  to  you  to  send. 
Your  safe  returne  wee  wish,  and  so  I  end. 

R.  Holme. 


185 

-»d&>.  <#«-  -5«8>^^g$ 5^<3a^  ^^gSKSSS^  -S^^iPS SIS^^S?^ 

CHESHIRE  MAY  SONG. 


Kindly  communicated  to  the  Editor  by  George  Ormerod,  Esq., 
of  Sedbury  Park,  Gloucestershire.  We  may  refer  the  reader  for 
observations  on  the  chief  rural  customs  of  the  county  to  the  first 
volume  of  Mr.  Ormerod's  excellent  *  History  of  Cheshire.' 

A  LL  on  this  pleasant  evening  together  come 

are  we,  [gay, 

For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and 

To  tell  you  of  a  blossom  that  hangs  on  every  tree. 

Drawing  near  to  this  morning  of  May. 
Oh,  this  is  pleasant  singing,  sweet  May  flower 
is  springing. 
And  summer  comes  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay. 

Rise  up  the  master  of  this  house,  all  in  his  chain 
of  gold. 
For  the  summer,  &c. 
And  turn  unto  your  loving  wife,  so  comely  to 
behold. 
Drawing  near,  &c. 
Oh,  this  is  pleasant,  &c. 

24 


186 

Rise  up  the  mistress  of  this  house,  with  gold 
upon  your  breast. 
For  the  summer,  &c. 
And  if  your  body's  sleeping,  we  hope  your  soul 
has  rest. 
Drawing  near,  &c. 
Oh,  this  is  pleasant,  &c. 

Or, 

Oh,  rise  up,  Mr.  A.  B.,  all  joys  to  you  betide,  &e. 
Your  steed  stands  ready  saddled,  a  hunting  for 
to  ride,  &c. 

Or, 

Your  saddle  is  of  silver,  your  bridle  is  of  gold, 

&c. 
Your  bride  shall  ride  beside  you,  so  lovely  to 

behold,  &c. 

Or, 

Oh,  rise  up,  Mr.  D.  C,  and  take  your  pen  in 
hand,  &c. 

For  you're  a  learned  scholar,  as  we  do  under- 
stand, &c. 


187 

Or, 

Oh,  rise  up,  Mistress  E.  F.,   all  in  your  rich 

attire,  &c. 
You  are  to  have  some  noble  lord,  or  else  some 

wealthy  squire,  &c. 

Or, 

Oh,  rise  up  aU  the  httle  ones,  the  flower  of  all 

your  kin,  &;c. 
And   blessed   be  the  chamber  their  bodies  lie 

within,  &c. 

Or, 

Oh,  rise  up,  the  good  housekeeper,  aU  in  her 

gown  of  silk,  &c. 
And  may  she  have  a  husband  good,  and  twenty 

cows  to  milk,  &c. 

Or, 

But  where  are  all  those  fair  maids,  that  used 

here  to  dance  ?  &c. 
Oh,  they  are  gone  abroad  from  hence,  to  spend 

their  lives  in  France,  &c. 


188 

God  bless  your  house  and  harbour,  your  riches 

and  your  store, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and 

gay. 

We  hope  the  Lord  will  prosper  you  both  now 
and  evermore. 
Drawing  near  to  this  morning  of  May. 
Oh,  this  is  pleasant  singing,  sweet  May-flower 
is  springing, 
And  summer  comes  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay. 


These  verses  are  a  selection  from  a  series  sent  from  High  Legh, 
in  Cheshire,  to  Mr.  Ormerod,  by  a  lady  resident  there,  in  1827. 
She  mentioned  that  the  "  series  of  stanzas  is  widely  extended  to 
suit  all  classes  of  persons  that  may  be  required  to  be  addressed, 
and  the  rural  minstrels  occasionally  improvise  in  a  style  corre- 
sponding to  what  is  here  given." 


^©  ^  ^  (^  (^  ^^  ^^  ^^ 


THE  EARLS  OF  CHESTER. 


The  following  poem  is  entitled  by  an  early  transcriber, 
"Certeine  Verses  said  to  be  made  by  Richard  Bostock 
of  Tattenhall,  Gent."  It  is  a  laboured  composition,  and 
although  curious  in  its  way,  does  not  seem  to  be  worthy 
of  lengthened  commentary  even  by  the  county  historian. 
The  copy  here  used  is  one  preserved  by  Cole,  which  was 
"  sent  to  me  out  of  Cheshire  by  my  friend  Mr.  Allen 
of  Tarporley,  and  senior  fellow  of  Trinity  College  in 
Cambr." 


TyHEN  Saxon  Harold,  Godwin's  son, 
Who  had  been  K.  without  all  right, 
At  Hastings'  field  to  death  was  done, 

And  all  his  army  put  to  flight, 
To  William,  who  had  won  the  field. 
The  English  peers  the  crown  did  yield. 
By  Arlett,  bastard  son  was  he. 
To  Robert,  Duke  of  Normandy. 


190 

He,  once  establisli'd  in  his  seat, 

Amongst  his  men  divides  his  land  ; 
For  now  his  power  was  grown  so  great, 
The  Enghsh  could  not  him  withstand. 
He  entring  as  a  Conqueror, 
Lives,  lands,  and  goods  were  in  his  power. 
To  his  own  use  he  seiz'd  the  best. 
And  'mongst  his  soldiers  parts  the  rest. 

His  sister's  son,  Hugh  Lupus  call'd. 

Whom  than  the  rest  he  held  more  deare. 
The  Earle  of  Chester  was  install' d 

With  many  wights  that  royal  were. 
Chester  by  sword  to  hold  the  same, 
As  he  by  crovsna  did  hold  the  realme ; 
Who  made  eight  barons  of  his  own. 
The  names  of  whom  full  well  are  known. 

Nigell  of  Halton  was  the  first. 

Whose  heirs  did  bear  the  Lacy's  name. 
The  Earls  of  Lincoln  have  been  earst ; 

In  Ireland  likewise  of  great  fame. 
Thomas  the  Earle  of  Lancaster, 
Had  Alice  to  wife,  who  was  their  heire ; 
He  issueless  did  lose  his  head. 
And  she  did  never  after  wed : 


191 

But  to  his  brother  Henry  she 

Assur'd  her  lands ;  since  when  they  were 
By  Earles  and  Dukes  undoubtedly 

Held  by  the  house  of  Lancaster, 
Till  BoUinbroke  attain' d  the  crowne, 
By  putting  second  Richard  downe ; 
Since  when  the  castle  and  the  fee 
Were  in  the  Crowne  continually. 

Robert  Fitz-Norman  next  was  made 
Of  Mount-Halt  Baron,  in  whose  heirs 

That  barony  succession  had 

Two  hundred  seventy  and  six  years. 

The  last,  who  was  a  worthy  knight, 

To  Isabelle  gave  all  his  right ; 

The  second  Edward's  wife  was  she : 

So  there  did  end  the  barony. 

The  third  was  William  Maldebeng, 

Of  Malbancke  Baron,  from  whose  name 

His  grandchild  daughters  did  it  bringe ; 
Vernon  and  Bassett  had  the  same 

By  marriage,  which  did  come  to  pass, 

After  the  first  created  was 

About  of  years  some  seventy-three. 

Ere  parted  by  copercenary. 


192 

Then  Guarin  Vernon  after  him, 
Of  Shebrook  next  created  he, 
The  heirs  of  whom  have  barons  been 

For  ^ve  descents  continually. 
The  first  deceased,  then  it  came 
To  Littlebury,  Wilburham, 
And  Stafford,  by  his  sisters  three. 
Who  unto  those  three  married  be. 

Robert  Fitz-Hugh,  the  next  in  place. 

Of  Malpas  Baron  was  create  ; 
Which  he  enjoy'd  but  little  space. 

Before  his  days  grew  out  of  date. 
Leaving  no  heirs,  he  being  dead, 
The  Earle  created,  in  his  stead, 
Eymon  ap  David,  unto  whome 
Succeeded  Ralfe  his  only  sonn. 

Two  daughters,  but  no  son  at  all 

That  Ralfe  he  had,  who  beinge  dead. 
The  heritage  forthwith  did  fall 

To  those  that  did  his  daughters  wedd. 
First  David  Gierke  he  had  the  one. 
He  was  to  William  Belwurd  sonn ; 
The  other  Robert  Patrick  had  : 
They  'twixt  them  twain  partition  made. 


193 

From  Philip,  who  was  younger  sonn 

Of  David  Clerk,  assuredly 
The  antient  house  of  Egerton 

Doth  truely  draw  their  pedigree. 
Long  after  this  by  many  years. 
By  marriage  made  among  the  heirs. 
The  barony  being  joyn'd  again. 
To  Sutton  the  Lord  Dudley  came. 

On  Hamon  Massy  he  did  bestow 

The  Dunham- Massy  barony. 
To  whom  there  did  succeed  in  rowe 

Eight  heirs  of  his  successively. 
From  thenceforth  'mongst  the  female  heirs 
It  scatter'd  was  for  many  years  ; 
Yet  most  part,  after  ages  past, 
To  Fitton  of  Bollen  came  at  last. 

The  next  was  Gilbert  Venables, 
The  Baron  made  of  Kinderton, 

From  whom  the  same,  to  these  our  days, 
In  down-right  line  hath  ever  come, 

To  Thomas,  who  now  holds  the  same. 

Enjoying  land,  title,  and  name. 

Few  houses  shall  you  find  beside 

That  in  one  name  so  long  abide. 

25 


194 

Nicholas  of  Stockport  was  the  last 

To  whome  that  title  he  did  give  ; 
But  after  many  yeares  past, 

In  which  his  heirs  did  barons  live, 
Warren  of  Poynton  got  the  same 
By  marriage.     That  same  Warren  came 
From  Earle  Warren  and  Surry  both, 
As  Camden  doth  affirm  for  troth. 

These  barons  all  were  councellors 

Unto  the  earle  in  his  affairs, 
And  some  were  household  officers, 

And  left  their  places  to  their  heirs. 
The  year  one  thousand  ninety  three 
He  built  West-Chester  Monastrey  ; 
And  five  and  forty  years  compleat 
He  did  enjoy  that  famous  seat. 

Richard  his  son,  but  seven  years  old. 

Succeeded  in  his  father's  place  : 
He  did  this  famous  earldome  hold 

For  nineteen  years  and  three  months'  space  ; 
And  sailing  then  for  Normandy, 
First  Henry's  son  to  accompany. 
Near  Barbfleet  being  run  aground, 
Themselves  and  all  their  traine  were  drown'd. 


195 

Then  Rondle  Gernoun  next  governor  was, 

He  was  Hugh  Lupus  sister's  sonne; 
Who  but  eight  years  enjoy'd  the  place, 

Ere  his  last  glass  was  fully  run. 
Roundle  Meschines,  Gernoun's  heire, 
Was  next  that  did  enjoy  that  chair : 
This  Roundle,  both  in  peace  and  warr, 
Past  all  the  English  nobles  farr. 

In  this  time  Stephen  rul'd  this  land, 

To  Maud  the  empress  due  of  right, 
First  Henry's  heire ;  him  to  withstand 

She  labour'd  all  the  friends  she  might. 
The  carle  to  aid  her  raised  his  power, 
Won  many  a  city,  towne,  and  towre ; 
And  of  all  these  he  did  obtaine. 
He  had  the  honour,  she  the  gaine. 

The  kinge  to  Lincoln  seige  had  laid, 

And  lain  before  it  many  days ; 
The  carle  came  downe  the  towne  to  aide, 

With  all  his  power  the  seige  to  raise. 
Some  thought  the  kinge  durst  not  abide, 
With  him  the  battle  to  have  tryed ; 
But  though  his  coming  he  did  knowe. 
Yet  from  the  seige  he  would  not  goe. 


196 

Upon  the  plaine,  before  the  towne, 
They  battle  joine  couragiously ; 

There  many  a  knight  was  beaten  down. 
Ere  either  won  the  victory. 

At  length  the  earle  did  winn  the  day ; 

The  king's  pow'r  brake  and  ran  away; 

The  kinge  himself  in  chace  was  ta'en, 

And  most  part  of  his  soldiers  slaine. 

To  Empress  Maud  at  Glocester, 

He  did  dehver  up  the  kinge, 
Who  kept  him  as  a  prisoner 

From  midsommer  untill  the  springe. 
Then  for  the  Earle  of  Glocester, 
Who  taken  was  at  Winchester, 
Her  bastard  brother  to  set  free. 
She  gave  the  kinge  his  libertie. 

And  after  many  a  bloody  field, 

Where  countless  numbers  he  had  slaine. 
The  kinge  did  to  conditions  yeelde. 

So,  during  life,  himself  might  reigne ; 
The  empress  sonn,  at  his  decease. 
Should  have  the  crowne  to  him  in  peace; 
And  every  one  that  took  her  part. 
He  pardon' d  freely  with  all  his  heart. 


197 

The  Welchmen  did  incursions  make 

On  Rounde's  County  Palatine, 
Whilst  he  such  endless  pains  did  take, 

In  peace  these  princes  to  conjoine  ; 
But  hearing  it,  such  speed  he  made. 
With  that  small  power  which  then  he  had, 
Whilst  near  Nampwich  they  sought  their  prey. 
He  slew  all  those  fled  not  away. 

The  first  year  of  his  dignity. 

He  built  the  Abbey  of  Cumbermere, 

The  last  year  Poulton  founded  he ; 
He  govern'd  five  and  twenty  year. 

And  dy'd,  as  every  other  must. 

But  tho'  thy  body  turne  to  dust, 

Religiouse,  valiant,  just,  and  wise ! 

Great  Cheshire  Honour  never  dies ! 

When  great  Meschines  was  deceas'd. 
His  son  Hugh  Keveliock  did  enjoy 
His  honours,  and  the  same  increas'd 

By  valour  and  by  industry. 
He  with  his  power  did  Wales  invade, 
For  inroads  which  themselves  had  made  ; 
Regain'd  his  lands,  and  conquer'd  all 
Bromfeild  and  greatest  part  of  Yale. 


198 

Beloved  both  by  king  and  peers. 
And  greatly  feared  by  his  foes. 
He  govem'd  nine  and  twenty  years, 

And  then  the  way  of  all  flesh  goes ; 
And  left  to  govern  in  his  place. 
The  cheifest  man  of  all  that  race, 
His  son,  call'd  Randle  Blondeville, 
The  paragon  of  all  the  isle. 

Bold,  bountiftdl,  religious,  wise, 

Profoundly  learned,  liberall, 
In  all  things  dealing  with  advice ; 

Of  haughty  mind,  yet  mild  withall. 
This  younge  earle  was;  which  so  did  move 
The  Second  Henry  him  to  love. 
That  his  son  Jeffrey  being  dead, 
He  did  to  him  his  widow  wed. 

Of  Brittaine,  and  of  Richmond  she. 

In  her  owne  right  the  countesse  was ; 
Which  added  to  his  dignity. 

Of  earldoms  made  a  mighty  mass. 
Of  Chester,  Lincoln,  Huntingdon, 
His  father  earle  was ;  but  the  sonn 
Flint,  Denbigh,  Bromfeild,  Powis-lands 
Besides,  had  got  into  his  hands. 


199 

Five  earldoms,  and  three  baronies, 
He  now  enjoys  with  manors  faire ; 

And  many  wealthy  royalties 

In  Nottingham  and  Staffordshire. 

But  his  great  honours  alter'd  not 

His  mind  or  manners  any  jott ; 

For  full  of  princely  courtesey. 

E'en  to  the  last  continued  he. 

When  Second  Henry  was  deceas'd, 

And  Coeur  de  Lion  wore  the  crowne. 
His  fame  in  foreign  lands  increas'd ; 

For  that  great  kinge  of  high  renowne, 
The  French  kinge,  and  the  emperor. 
And  Austrick  duke,  a  man  of  power, 
Did  joyne  together  to  redeeme 
The  city  of  Hyerusalem. 

For  that  great  Souldan  Saladine, 
In  open  feild,  not  long  before. 

Took  prisioner  Guy  of  Lusignan, 
And  many  valiant  Christians  more. 

After  which  feild  the  Saracine 

Took  Joppa  and  Jerusalem, 

Tyre,  Sydon,  Aeon,  Tripolis, 

And  many  cities  more  than  this. 


200 

Before  Messyne  in  Sicily 

The  Christian  princes  point  to  meet, 
With  all  their  warlike  company, 

And  there  together  joine  their  fleet. 
But  man  doth  purpose,  God  dispose ; 
For  on  the  seas  such  tempest  rose. 
The  emperor  lands  in  Syrian  shore. 
The  French  kinge  with  Tyreyna  bore. 

The  see  of  Canterbury  void, 

The  monks,  by  their  authority, 
Which  many  years  they  had  enjoy 'd. 

Chose  Stephen  Langtown  to  that  see. 
But  him  the  kinge  would  not  admitt, 
Therefore  the  bishop  did  him  gett 
Unto  the  Pope,  and  such  means  made, 
That  confirmation  there  he  had. 

But  that  the  kinge  did  more  incense, 

As  breach  of  his  prerogative ; 
Wherefore  the  monks  he  banish'd  hence, 

And  did  to  Langton  warning  give, 
On  pain  of  death,  for  to  refraine 
To  come  into  his  land  againe : 
Which  heard,  he  straight  return'd  to  Rome, 
For  excommunication. 


201 

Against  the  kinge  and  all  his  land, 

Whereto  the  Pope  did  soon  assent ; 
For  whoso  doth  his  power  withstand, 

Must  be  depos'd  incontinent. 
The  neighbouring  kings  he  doth  persuade 
King  John's  dominions  to  invade ; 
And  quitts  the  subjects  of  the  realm 
From  oaths  and  from  allegiance  cleane. 

And  by  this  means  such  wars  arise 

Against  the  king  both  here  and  hence, 
By  out  and  inward  enemies. 

That  to  procure  the  Pope's  dispence, 
To's  legate  the  kinge  surrender  made 
Of  s  crown  and  all  the  power  he  had, 
And  then  did  back  receive  the  crown. 
On  tribute  to  the  Church  of  Rome. 

But  this  did  so  the  peers  offend, 
As  scandalous  unto  the  state. 
That  they  forthwith  to  France  did  send. 

The  kinge  thereof  for  to  entreat. 
That  he  unto  them  presently 
Would  send  his  son  their  king  to  be : 
On  hostages  he  was  content. 
And  with  a  power  his  son  he  sent. 

26 


202 

No  sooner  was  he  come  on  shore. 

But  the  English  barons  joy n'd  with  him; 
Whinchester  first,  and  then  Windsor 
They  got,  and  did  the  seige  begin 
About  Dover ;  but  with  inward  grief. 
Or  surfeit,  John  did  end  his  hfe. 
And  left  a  sonn  but  nine  years  old. 
The  which  of  right  succeed  him  should. 

The  infant's  loane  distressed  state. 

Being  void  of  means  himself  to  aide, 
Earle  Rondle  did  commiserate. 

And  likewise  vahant  Pembroke  pray'd 
To  join  with  him  young  Henery, 
To  London  to  accompany. 
From  Newark,  where  his  father  died. 
And  crowne  him,  spite  of  Frenchmen's  pride. 

Which  they  accordingly  perform'd. 

And  there  with  due  solemnitie 
The  infant  with  the  crown  adom'd, 

And  swore  his  subjects  true  to  be ; 
And  then  the  next  ensuing  day 
They  towards  Lincolne  march'd  away. 
And  by  assault  the  city  wonn, 
Where  many  French  to  death  were  done. 


203 

But  when  French  Lewis  once  did  hear 

What  numbers  of  their  men  were  slain, 
And  of  what  force  the  two  earles  were, 

Without  delay  himself  was  faine, 
Money  being  paid  for  his  expence, 
Noe  claim  to  make,  but  part  from  hence, 
And  all  such  places  to  restore. 
Whereof  he  conquest  made  before. 

Thus  having  plac'd,  in  peace  and  rest. 
Young  Henry  on  his  father's  throne. 

By  all  good  subjects  highly  blest, 
Earle  Rondle  back  returned  home  ; 

And  valiant  Pembroke  did  abide. 

The  infant  king  to  rule  and  guide. 

Earle  Rondle  did  intend  againe 

A  journey  to  Jerusalem. 

And  having  gathered  such  a  power 
As  fitting  was  for  his  intent. 

With  Quincy,  Earle  of  Winchester, 
Who  joyn'd  with  him,  to  sea  they  went; 

But  by  the  way  they  understood 

How  Christian  bands,  by  Nilus  flood, 

Beseig'd  the  city  Damiate, 

And  long  with  loss  had  laine  thereat. 


204 

Wherefore  he  hither  bent  his  course, 
And  came  in  time  to  give  them  aide ; 

For  raise  their  seige  they  must  of  force 

Through  extream  wants ;  but  then  he  staid, 

And  with  the  great  applause  of  all 

He  chosen  was  Lord  Generall. 

Nor  gave  they  him  that  place  in  vaine 

They  by  his  means  the  city  gaine. 

Inestimable  was  the  store 

Of  gold  and  wealthy  merchandize 

That  there  they  got :  but  he  did  more 
God's  house  esteeme  than  the  prize. 

The  Egiptian  Souldan  Saladine 

Did  offer  to  him  Jerusalem, 

And  all  those  holds  he  got  of  late 

In  Jury,  back  for  Damiate  : 

Which  he  accepted,  in  the  name 

Of  John,  who  then  was  Jury's  king  : 

Him  leaving  to  receive  the  same. 
He  into  England  back  did  bring, 

Without  great  loss,  his  famous  bands, 

Renown'd  and  fear'd  in  heathen  lands ; 

And  so  enrich'd,  there  was  not  one 

But  had  enough  to  hve  upon. 


205 

And  instantly  on  his  returne. 

Resolving  now  to  live  in  peace, 
The  great  strong  castle  of  Beeston 

He  built,  with  th'  abby  of  Delacres, 
And  Chartley  castle ;  in  two  years 
These  famous  castles  finish'd  were  ; 
One  thousand  two  hundred  and  twenty, 
They  both  were  finished  perfectly : 

And  after  lived  for  twelve  years'  space, 

Loden  with  honours,  wealth  and  years, 
Both  highly  in  his  prince's  grace 

And  reverenced  of  all  his  peers ; 
And  equal  with  all  those  above. 
Most  deeply  in  the  Commons'  love. 
But  at  the  last,  at  Wallingford, 
^rhis  earldom  lost  her  honour'd  lord. 

For  fifty  years,  in  four  kings'  reigns, 

Sometimes  in  peace,  sometimes  in  strife, 
His  earldom  in  his  hands  remains. 

Then  issueless  he  left  this  life. 
He  had  four  sisters,  unto  whom 
His  lands  should  by  succession  come  : 
All  in  his  hfetime  married  were  ; 
Th'  eldest  of  whom  John  Scott  did  beare, 


206 

By  David,  of  the  royal  line 

Of  Scottish  kings  :  one  of  whose  heirs 
Enjoyed  the  Scottish  crown  in  time, 

As  by  their  cronicles  appears. 
Earle  Arundel  the  second  had. 
And  Darby  of  the  third  choice  made  ; 
And  Quincy  Earle  of  Winchester 
Had  to  his  wife  youngest  of  four. 

In  Chester  abbey  was  interred 

Earle  Rondle's  body.     To  his  place 
John  Scott  his  nephew  was  preferr'd, 
Who  likewise  Earle  of  Angus  was  ; 
Who,  after  five  years,  issueless, 
At  Darnhall  died  :  the  king  did  seize 
His  earldoms  all  into  his  hands. 
Giving  his  sisters  other  lands. 

For  he  four  sisters  left  alive. 

And  AUane  Lord  of  Galloway 
The  eldest  of  them  had  to  wife ; 

She  Devorguil  bore,  that  lady  gay. 
Who  by  John  Baliol  forth  did  bring 
John  Baliol  who  was  Scotland's  king. 
The  next  was  match'd  to  Robert  Bruce, 
A  Scottish  lord  of  antient  house. 


207 

The  third  no  issue;  the  fourth 

And  last  did  Henry  Hastings  wedd, 
And  to  him  issue  store  brought  forth, 

Of  whom  are  famouse  houses  bredd. 
King  Henry,  after  sixteen  years. 
Unto  Prince  Edward  and  his  heirs, 
Kings  of  this  land,  did  it  convey 
By  patent,  soe  untill  this  day. 

All  Princes  of  this  land  did  hold 

The  same,  with  as  great  royalty, 
As  Lupus  had  the  same  of  old, 
And  his  succeeding  progenie. 
So  Chester  ever  hath  had  since 
An  Earl  when  England  had  a  Prince, 
And  when  a  Prince  there  hath  been  none. 
The  profitts  to  the  crowne  have  gone. 


208 


THE  STANLEY  POEM. 


The  most  antient  metrical  account  of  the  Stanleys  Earls  of 
Derby,  observes  Mr.  T.  Heywood,  is  contained  in  some  uncouth 
rhymes  supposed  to  have  been  written  about  the  year  1562,  by 
Thomas  Stanley,  Bishop  of  Sodor  and  Man,  and  son  of  that 
Sir  Edward  Stanley,  who,  for  his  valour  at  Flodden,  was  created 
Lord  Monteagle.  Only  two  early  copies  are  known  to  exist. 
One,  which  is  imperfect,  is  contained  in  MS.  Harl.  541.  The 
other,  here  first  printed,  and  hitherto  unnoticed,  is  from  a  MS. 
of  the  sixteenth  century  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  Library,  and 
will,  I  think,  be  found  on  examination  to  be  earlier  in  diction 
than  the  copy  in  the  British  Museum.  The  reader  is  referred  to 
Mr.  Hejrwood's  work  on  the  Earls  of  Derby,  and  to  Mr.  Ormerod's 
Stanley  Legend  in  Nichols'  Collectanea,  vol.  vii. 


T  INTEND  with  true  reporte  to  praise 

The  vahaunte  actes  of  the  stoute  Standelais ; 
From  whence  they  came,  and  how  they  came  to 

that  name, 
I  shall  plainely  and  truly  declare  the  same. 
Theire  names  be  Awdeley  by  very  right  dissent, 
I  shall  she  we  you  how,  if  you  geeve  good  attente, 


209 

As  quickly  as  I  can,  without  more  delay, 
How  the  name  was  changed  and  called  Standley. 
In  antique  tyme  much  more  then  two  hundred 

yeare 
Was  on  L.  Audley,  by  stories  does  appeare, 
Audley  by  creation  and  by  name  Audley, 
Havinge  a  lordshippe  is  yeat  called  Standley, 
Which  lordship  he  gave  to  his  second  sonne, 
For  valiaunte  actes  that  he  before  had  donne. 
There  this  young  man  dwelling  many  a  longe 

daye, 
And  many  yeares  called  Awdley  of  Standelay, 
After  he  maried  the  heyre  of  Sturton ; 
And  when  Sturton  died  thether  he  went  to  wonne, 
And  as  in  length  of  tyme  thinges  be  lost  and 

wonne, 
All  the  countrey  called  him  Standley  of  Sturtonn, 
The  which  name  sticks  still  to  all  his  succession. 
Hit  chaunced  after,  a  godly  man  his  sonne 
Espowsed  the  daughter  and  heyre  of  Hooton ; 
After  at  Hooton,  as  chaunce  him  befalled, 
Dwelled,  and  Standly  of  Hootoun  was  calld. 
As  it  doth  continue  to  this  present  day, 
Prainge  God  that  long  with  worshippe  so  it  may 

27 


210 

Thus  sure  undoubted  there  first  name  was  Audley, 
Then  chaunged  and  by  custom  called  Standley. 
After  a  second  sonne  of  Hootoun  chaunced 
By  valiant e  actes  was  highly  advaunsed. 
To  thenglishe  coorte  cam  thadmirall  of  Henoode, 
With    gentlemen    of   Fraunce  to   prove  their 

manhood. 
On  of  them  caUed  the  best  with  speare  and  shield, 
The  king  set  John  Standley  to  meete  him  in  the 

field: 
He  was  also  named  the  chiefest  of  all  Fraunce, 
But  this  stoute  Standley  had  such  fortune  and 

chaunce. 
He  did  not  only  put  his  enemie  to  lacke. 
But  also  he  slue  him  and  brake  his  hors  backe. 
Mo  gentlemen  of  England  did  worthilye. 
For  each  on  of  their  enimie  gat  victory : 
Frenchmen  for  their  adventure  made  themselves 

blame. 
Though  they  went  not  all  home,  yeat  they  went 

with  shame ; 
And  for  this  acte  the  king  made  John  Standley 

knight, 
For  he  perceived  him  a  man  of  greate  might ; 


211 

And  for  his  hardie  feate  he  gave  to  his  heyre 
Winge,  Trynge,  and  Iving,  in  Buckingamshire. 
Then  of  the  king  he  desired  eamestlye 
Licence  to  passe  the  seas  adventures  to  trye. 
The  king  therewithal!  was  very  well  contente, 
And  alowed  him  well  for  his  manly  entente. 
Thus  over  the  sea  Sir  John  Standley  is  gonne 
Straighte  to  the  French  courte,  but  medle  with 

him  wold  non ; 
The  admiralls  jorney  was  not  yeat  forgotten, 
How  he  and  his  compeers  were  right  well  beaten, 
For  which  they  bare  John  Standley  malice  and 

spite. 
But  to  reconter  with  him  non  had  delighte. 
His  jolly  entertaynement  of  the  French  king 
Was  honorable  and  free  in  everye  thinge, 
Gave  him  pleasures  and  giftes  right  bounteouslye, 
With  gould  and  silver  full  plenteouslye 
To  maintayne  his  stoute  liberall  expences. 
This  John  Standley  thus  departed  thence  is, 
So  visited  all  the  countreys  of  Christendom, 
And  to  the  Turkes  courte  personallye  did  come, 
StiU  getting  great  honor,  therof  did  not  faile 
Against  all  those  that  in  armes  durst  him  assayle  ; 


212 

And  in  the  Turkes  pallace  abode  haulf  a  yeare, 
Till  with  the  Turkes  daughter  he  became  most 

deare  : 
Being  yong  with  child,  she  secretly  did  saye 
And  privily  gave  warning  to  Sir  John  Standeley, 
Said,  Valiaunte  knight,  the  case  with  me  thus 

standes, 
Thoughe  thou  gett  honor  dayly  with  harte  and 

handes, 
Hit  is  not  that  my  deare  love  cann  save  thy  life, 
Thou  hast  me  yongwith  child,  and  I  not  thye  wife. 
Which,  if  my  father  knew,  I  dare  well  saye 
For  no  good  ne  riches  might  you  skape  awaye. 
My  father  loves  you  well,  and  in  the  meane  tyme 
Take  leave  and  go  hence,  while  unknowne  is 

your  crime. 
Alas !  I  speake  against  myn  own  hartes  ease. 
No  worldly  thinge  like  your  presence  can  me 

please  ; 
Father  nor  mother  nor  all  my  frindes  and  kinne 
Like  unto  you  I  esteeme  not  of  a  pinne  : 
O  what  cruell  payne  now  perceth  my  harte 
To  thinke  that  you,  my  deare,  should  thus  from 

me  departe. 


213 

Yeat  to  lose  your  company  me  thinke  it  meeter 
Then  to  lose  your  life  (deare  harte)  that  is  more 

sweeter ; 
I  may  yeat  rejoyse,  as  long  as  yee  have  life, 
To  thinke  it  may  happe  me  once  to  be  your  wife  : 
Call,  and  I  come ;  send,  and  I  will  not  tary ; 
For  space  of  seaven  yeares  I  will  not  sure  marie ; 
Perceive  you  may  I  love  you  better  than  well, 
I  meane  to  save  your  life  and  mine  owne  to  quell. 
I  trust  no  better  after  you  be  gonne  hence 
But  right  redie  death  for  la  eke  of  your  presence. . 
And  as  for  your  yong  child,  I  make  mine  avowe 
I  shall  joy  and  play  with  it  insteade  of  you. 
And  truly  also  remaine  wholly  your  owne  ; 
The  godds  send  you  to  scape  ere  the  truth  be 

knowne ! 
Thus  takes  his  leave,  and  away  John  Standley 

wendes,  [friendes ; 

Heare  was  heavie  parting  betwixte  two  deare 
To  England  apace  himselfe  doth  endeavour. 
With  renowne  and  honor  to  him  for  ever, 
And  had  attempte  all  the  courtes  of  Christen- 

dome,  come ; 

And  wann  honor  in  each  place  wheare  he  did 


214 

Not  setting  in  house  with  pen,  incke,  and  paper, 
But  in  camp  advaunsed  through  stout  adventure. 
I  do  not  speake  nor  meane  anie  to  despice 
That  be  enhaunsed  by  penn  or  marchandise, 
For  both  must  be  hadd  and  both  necessarie. 
And  both  worthie  praise,  thoughe  the  seates  do 

varye ;  [praysed 

But  to  saie  the  truth,  that  man  ought  to  be  most 
That  by  hardy  actes  to  honor  is  raised ; 
For  of  those  be  made  bookes  in  prose  and  in  ryme, 
Of  others  not,  and  serves  for  the  tyme. 
Thoughe  of  them  have  divers  comen  full  valliaunt, 
Yeat  they  may  not  their  originall  advaunte, 
Nor  so  largely  set  furth  theire  renowne  so  farre 
As  those  v^^hose  advauncement  have  comen  by 

warr. 
Yeat  I  forgat  on  thing  of  Sir  John  Standley, 
In  his  returne  homeward  he  hard  people  saie 
How  that   Sir  Robert   Knowlesse  with  greate 

defiaunce,  [Fraunce 

Newe  come  foorth  of  England    had    invaded 
With  a  jolly  companye  of  Englishmen. 
Sir  John  Standley  left  the  righte  way  homeward 

then, 


215 

And  repaired  to  Knowlesse  with  good  speadie 

harte, 
And  manfully  did  take  the  Englishmens  parte. 
This  Knowlesse  was  but  litle  and  verye  hardie, 
And  did  service  to  his  prince  very  notablye. 
They  burnt  castells  and  townes  and  made  foule 

araye,  [daye. 

Which  be  called  Knowlesse  Myters  yeat  to  this 
They  passed  by  Paris  in  battell  aray, 
And  without  notable  battle  came  theire  way. 
When  they  had  donne  theire  feates  they  ventured 

for, 
They  returned  to  theire  King  with  much  honor, 
And  then  that  gentle  prince  King  Edward  the 

Fourth 
Did  so  welcome  them   home  to  theire  greate 

comfforte, 
And  gave  them  such  praise  and  honorable  laude, 
That  they  thought  theire  service  never  so  well 

bestowede. 
Thus  is  returned  John  Standley  home  againe, 
Whereof  the  king  and  nobles  were  right  fayne, 
Who  harde  of  his  valiaunte  actes  more  and  more, 
AQ  sortes  of  people  honored  him  therfore. 


216 

Now  let  us  make  heere  a  pretty  watring  place, 
And  leave  Sir  John  Standley  for  a  litle  space, 
And  speake  of  Lord  Lathum  dwelling  at  Lathum 

Hall, 
And  what  notable  chaunce  chaunced  to  befall. 

leere  cnUetfi  tije  fir&t  ffitu* 


THE    SECOND    FITTE. 

NOW    speake    of  Lord   Lathum   dwelling    at 

Lathum  Hall, 
And  what  notable  chaunce  chaunced  to  befall 
Lord  Lathum,  a  man  of  fourscore  yeares  of  age, 
His  ladie  as  ould,  and  past  wordlye  courage, 
Having  no  issue  by  procreation. 
Much  lamenting  the  lacke  of  generation, 
But  God,  that  knowes  still  best  what  is  to  be 

donne,  [succession. 

At   His   pleasure    maketh   heyres    and    geeves 
As  by  His  power  most  infinite  and  mightye. 
Did  send  them  an  heyre  most  miraculouslye. 


217 

More  myracle  then  marvaile  seemed  to  have  bene. 
For  the  hke  so  straunge  a  thing  hath  not  beene 

seene. 
This  name  Lathum  was  before  the  Conquest, 
And  in  Tarlesco  wood  an  egle  had  a  nest. 
With  her  three  fayre  byrdes  that  were  even  ready 

fligge, 
She  brought  to  them  a  goodly  boy,  yonge  and 

bigge, 
Swadled  and  cladde  in  a  mantle  of  scarclette. 
Lord  Lathum  this  hearing,  for  none  age  did  lette. 
But  to  his  wood  of  Tarlesco  he  rod  apace, 
And  fovnid  the  babe  preserved  by  Gods  greate 

grace ; 
Notwithstanding  uncovered  was  his  face, 
Yeat  not  devoured  nor  hurte  in  any  place. 
The  lord   made  the  fayre  babe  downe  to  be 

fetched, 
From  daunger  of  the  egles  hyt  dispatched. 
Brought  him  to  hys  lady  to  Lathum  Hall, 
Tooke  it  as  theire  owne,  and  thanked  God  of  all. 
It  was  unchristened  it  seemed  out  of  doubte, 
For  saulte  was  bownd  at  his  necke  in  a  linnen 

cloute, 

28 


218 

They  christened  hit  and  named  it  Oskell, 

And  made  yt  theire  heyre  after  them  there  to 

dwell, 
And  so  enjoyed  the  landes  as  is  knowne  right  well. 
But  whence  this  child  came  no  man  for  truth 

can  tell. 
But  even  by  Gods  grace  as  it  pleased  Him  sente, 
Who  from  the  egles  eyre  did  the  child  defend. 
When  the  ovld  Lord  Lathum  had  chaunged  his 
Departed  also  his  good  ladye  and  wife,         [life. 
When  Oskell  as  yong  Lord  Lathum  did  succeede. 
And  hved  lord  of  Lathum  longe  tyme  in  deade, 
God  did  send  him  yssue  a  maide  that  was  fayre. 
No  mo  children,  but  that  onlye  was  his  heyre. 
When  shee  cam  to  womanhood  and  lawfuU  age, 
As  other  women  be  lustie  of  courage. 
Devising  what  way  som  maters  to  aswage. 
Bethought  herselfe  on  a  pleasante  mariadge. 
She  harde  the  noble  bruite  of  Sir  John  Standley, 
And  condiscended  in  her  harte  even  straite  way, 
To  have  him  to  husband,  if  shee  might  him  gette, 
Secretely  send  him  a  token  did  not  let. 
Then  rewarded  j"  messenger  worthilye, 
The  which  token  he  received  lovinglye. 


219 

He  made  such  search  not  only  of  her  degree. 
But  as  well  of  conversation  and  beutye, 
And  harde  by  fame  to  be  honest  and  fayre, 
Her  father  ould,  and  shee  his  undoubted  heyre, 
Did  y^  good  fortune  and  chaunce  well  impute, 
Sought  opportunity  e  to  folio  we  by  suite. 
Nowe  Sir  John  Standley  to  Lancashire  doth  come, 
And  straighte  makes  his  journey  to  lovely  Lathum. 
And  when  Lord  Lathum  hard  it  at  the  first, 
The  cause  of  his  comminge  he  did  straighte 

mistruste. 
It  was  for  his  daughter  to  each  her  if  he  mighte, 
But  he  thoughte  that  of  her  he  should  have  no 
sighte.  [gentleman, 

Said,  Daughter,  heere  is  comminge  a  strange 
His  arrand  is  but  to  get  you  if  he  can ; 
Consider  you  be  mine  only  daughter  deare. 

And  my  righte  heyre  of  a  thousand  markes  a 

And  also  he  is  but  a  yonger  brother,  [yeare, 

Not  meete  for  such  an  heyre,  but  for  some  other. 

Doubte  not,  doughter,  but  I  shall  for  you  provide; 

Yee  be  yong  inoghe,  and  yeat  a  while  may  abide. 

Go  you  to  yon  chamber,  and  keepe  you  close 
there. 

At  this  tyme  you  must  forbeare  your  companye. 


220 

Alas,  father,  quoth  shee,  what  do  yee  judge  of 

me, 
That  I  lacke  witte  to  awnswere  as  well  as  hee  ? 
I  trust  (father)  God  will  me  with  witte  endue 
To  answere  all  such  as  to  me  shall  pursue. 
Yee  say  I  may  well  abyde,  and  I  say  not  no. 
But  wise  consideration  will  not  judge  so ; 
To  joyne  lustie  youth  and  may  byde  together, 
Is  as  horse  or  best  byding  in  the  tether, 
Seinge  on  every  syd  faire  corne  growing. 
Thinking,  if  they  were  lose,  they  would  be  doing. 
Ye  may  judge  me,  father,  as  it  may  you  please. 
But  you  may  not  so  judge  everich  ones  dissease. 
Go    to    your    chamber,    daughter,    even    nowe 

straighte  way, 
And  keepe  close.    Yeas,  father,  as  well  as  I  may. 
To  chamber  is  she  gonne  with  sorowfull  fate. 
And  as  it  is  hard  to  keepe  close  catte  or  Kate, 
Even  no  more  power  had  she  to  keepe  herself 

close. 
But  her  faire  fenestrall  did  shee  straighte  unlose. 
And  as  Sir  John  Standley  chaunsed  to  passe  by, 
Modestly  said,  Yee  be  welcome  hartily. 
Then  he  againe  with  discreete  humanity. 
And  with  lowe  obesaunce  thanked  her  lovingly. 


221 

But  when  on  of  them  of  thother  had  a  sight, 
He  of  a  fayre  lady,  and  shee  of  thee  knight. 
The  did  become  each  others  each  on  for  there 

parte. 
For  straightway  either  did  robb  anothers  harte. 
But  sure  after  there  sight  at  the  same  daye, 
Father  nor  mother  of  love  could  ridde  the  fraye. 
Althoughe  they  could  not  come  togeither  that  day, 
Within  shorte  space  after  he  stalle  her  away, 
Or  she  stalle  him,  I  cannot  tell  you  whether, 
But  they  were  not  well  till  they  were  both  to- 
gether. 
Then  made  hast  and  weddid  her  incontinent. 
Wherewith  soone  after  her  father  was  content, 
By  mediation  of  frindes,  and  the  acte  donne. 
Made  him  take  John  Standley  for  his  loving  sonne. 
And  tooke  his  aboade  at  Lathum  with  his  wif, 
Till  it  pleased  God  to  determyne  Oskells  life ; 
And  shortly e  after  the  deth  and  funerall,       [all. 
Went  to  the  courte  and  renued  his  acquaintance 
Then  Henry  the  Fourth  did  send  him  by  and  by 
With  the  Earle  of  Worcestre,  Sir  Thomas  Percye, 
Which  earle  of  the  king's  army  was  cheeftaine, 
And  sent  them  to  the  contrey  of  Acquitayne, 


222 

To  aide  Sir  Robert  Knowles,  lievetenant  being, 
Where  they  did  notable  service  to  the  king. 
Thus  they  came   home,  and   their  actes  were 

excellent. 
And  the  king  welcomed  them  with  good  intente. 
Then  did  King  Harry,  not  long  after. 
Make  Sir  John  Standley  of  howshould  tresourer, 
Became  the  greatest  mann  in  the  kings  coun- 

sayle. 
So  circumspecte  that  the  king  loved  him  well ; 
Then  shortely  after  sent  him  to  Yerland, 
There  made  him  his  deputye  and  lievetenaunte, 
Kepte  the  countrey  there  in  love  and  perfection. 
Neither  wilde  nor  tame  dm:st  make  insurrection. 
There  lies  he  buried,  Jesu  his  soule  defende ! 
Honorably  lived,  and  godly  made  his  ende. 

Now  tuching  the  Yle  of  Mann  somewhat  I 
will  saye, 
And  how  firste  it  cam  to  this  Sir  John  Standley e. 
Sir  William  Montague  was  first  Englishman, 
And  by  right  of  his  wife  was  first  Lord  of  Man ; 
He  was  a  stoute  man,  but  he  was  prodigall, 
And  to  the  Lord  Scroope  he  sould  this  yland  all; 


223 

Which  Lord  Scroope,  a  Po'mfrette  by  attainder, 
So  lost  that  yland  with  all  the  remainder. 
The  king  then  bestowed  this  fayre  fertile  iland 
After  Lord  Scroope  on  the  Earle  of  Northum- 
berland; 
In  Henryes  dayes,  the  fourth  of  his  raigne, 
At  battayle  of  Shrewsburye  was  that  earle  slayne. 
For  that  Sir  John  Standley  was  formost  in  these 

affaires, 
The  king  gave  the  iland  to  him  and  to  his  heyres. 
Which  he  well  deserved  manye  divers  waies  : 
Even   thus   the  He  of  Man  came  first  to  the 

Standleys, 
Prainge  God  in  possession  they  may  long  claime, 
With  all  the  rest  they  have,  God  preserve  them. 
Then  cam  Sir  John  Standley,  sonn  to  the  first 

Sir  John  Standley, 
And  was  liefetenaunt  of  Ireland  many  a  daye. 
Then  came  his  sonne  Harry,  that  was  lord  baroun. 
Lived  Lord  of  Lathum  till  his  life  was  donne. 


^ttrt  tntitsf  tf)t  ^etonlr  Jfptte. 


224 


THE    THIRD    FYTTE. 


THEN  came  Thomas  Derbye,  that  noble  stoute 

earle, 
Who  amongeste  menn  may  be  taken  as  a  peerle; 
So  appeareth  by  his  actes  which  I  shall  tell, 
That  duehe  and  trulye  may  be  proved  well ; 
Not  as  some  cronicles  do  flatter  falsly, 
Some  doth  leave  out  the  truth,  some  shamefully 

do  lye. 
Heare  shalbe  no  praises  but  that  shalbe  worthye, 
Also  that  no  man  of  truth  cann  not  it  denie. 
Some  croniclers  omitte  actes  right  notable, 
And  writtes  fancies  much  like  an  Esope  fable. 
To  leave  out  manly  actes  and  put  in  trifles. 
As  on  should  go  to  a  faire  and  buy  nyfiells. 
I  shall  open  divers  thinges  to  the  world  hid, 
Which  be  right  worthye  to  have  been  cronicled, 
Of  due  true  right  cannot  be  denied. 
But  he  like  a  very  man  himselfe  oft  tried, 
I  meane  Thomas  Standley,  heyre  to  Lord  Harry, 
And   firste    of  that   name   that   was   Earle    of 

Darby; 


225 

When  he  was  but  yonge,  just  xviii  yeares  of  age, 
The  Scottes  into  the  ile  of  Mann  made  a  voiage, 
There  did  burne  and  spoyle,  and  did  much  outrage, 
But  this  yong  man  being  of  lustie  courage. 
His  father  also  aged  and  unwedlye. 
Had  with  him  yong  men  a  lustye  company, 
Tooke  shipping,  and  in  the  ile  of  Mann  arryved. 
Thought  to  venge  those  harmes,  or  from  life 

deprived. 
From  Man  the  wind  scoured  him  into  Scotland, 
And  shortely  after  he  had  set  foote  on  land, 
From  to  reward  the  Scottes  with  the  same  like 

light, 
He  set  on  fire  a  greate  towne  called  Kirkobright, 
With  five  villages  mo,  or  he  away  went;  [brent. 
But  since  that  tyme  the  Scottes  in  Man  never 
There  was  good  beginninge  of  a  lustye  ladde, 
There  was  a  noble  child  to  venge  his  ould  dadde  ! 
I  like  mann  well  with  home  small  doubtes  be 

had,  [haulf  mad. 

But  buckells  himselfe  to  fighte  as  if  he  were 

For  his  stoute  harte  and  burninge  Kyrkeobryghte, 

The  king  to  his  worthie  welcome  home  made 

him  knight. 

29 


226 

Then  this  gentle  knighte  soone  after  maried  he 
Doughter  to  the  noble  earle  of  Salisbury, 
By  whome  he  had  divers  sonnes  notable, 
To  serve  God  and  his  prince  were  stoute  and  able, 
Of  whome  hereafter   I   entend    some  what   to 

speake,  [breake. 

But  nowe   I   may  not  my  grownded   purpose 
This  lady  comen  of  noble  parentage. 
Died  from  her  lond  and   lefte  him  in  chiefe 

corage : 
Leave  this,  and  turne  to  his  father  Lord  Henry, 
Shortly  after  God  tooke  him  to  his  mercy; 
Lord  Thomas  Standley  then  of  right  did  succeede. 
And  to  Queene  Margaret  was  sore  compained  on 

in  deede.  [esse, 

This  queene  was  a  ladye  of  stoute  greate  prow- 
And  shee  was  doughter  to  the  Duke  of  Angesse, 
She  tooke  on  her  to  keepe  a  parliamente 
Pointed  at  Coventry  herself  there  presente. 
Thither  came  Lord    Standley  neither  feard  ne 

fainte. 
To  see  who  durst  him  of  any  crime  attaints 
Hee  kneeled  humbly  downe  before  her  face. 
Said,  I  am  heare  to  submitte  me  to  your  grace. 


227 

Not  as  a  traitor  or  such  like  offender, 
Nor  to  your  grace  any  such  pretender, 
But  hether  comen  as  a  righte  deffender, 
Thoughe  my  power  perchaunce  som  thinke  it 

sclender. 
I  cry  deffiaunce  to  any  earthly  mann. 
Hereto  I  cast  my  glove,  reprove  me  who  can, 
Beseching  your  grace  be  but  indifferente, 
And  as  you  see  cause  let  right  have  preferment. 
I  trust  in  God  shortly  such  false  surmysers 
Shall  before  your  grace  be  proved  misers. 
Stand  up,  my  lord,  quod  she,  I  like  your  maner, 
I  trust  ye  will  she  we  yourself  as  ye  are. 
Three  dayes  the  glove  did  ly  on  the  chamber 

floore. 
On  still  appointed  to  watch  within  the  doore. 
And  every  night  watched  with  faire  torch  lighte, 
But  none  tooke  up  the  glove,  yoman,  lord,  ne 

knight. 
The  queene  her  selfe  tooke  payne  the  third  day 
To  take  up  the  glove,  and  such  like  wordes  did 

say : 
Undoubted  of  you,  my  lord,  some  did  tayles  tell, 
I  cannot  blame  you  though  you  take  it  not  well ; 


228 

And  I  not  well  contente,  by  God  and  by  Sainct 

Ann, 
To  heare  false  reporte  by  any  noble  mann. 
Returne  you  home  againe,  and  care  not  therfor, 
False  tongues,  my  lord,  henceforth  shall  hurte 

you  no  more ; 
And  do  good  justice  at  home  in  your  countrey, 
And  in  readines  to  searve  the  king  and  me. 
Thus  lustye  Lord  Standley  well  disburdened. 
And  thanckes  be  to  God,  joyfully  returned 
To  that  noble  woman  and  lady  his  wife, 
Who  not  long  after  chaunged  this  mortall  life. 
Then  he  came  in  favour  with  Lady  Margaret, 
That  was  doughter  to  the  Duke  of  Somerset, 
And    King    Henry  the    Seaventh  she  was  his 

mother. 
She  would  have  Lord  Standley,  she  would  have 

none  other ; 
Wherewith  the  duke  was  grieved  in  his  courage. 
And  devised  how  to  let  the  mariadge. 
He  beethought  him  of  a  mischeevous  acte, 
Yeat,  thanked  be  God,  his  purpose  was  backt. 
To  murther  Lord  Standley  he  was  pretendid, 
Hit  chauncid  the  matter  was  better  endid. 


229 

He  sent  over  sea  with  devise  much  marvelous, 
For  a  man  of  amies  called  most  dangerous, 
That  had  destroyed  and  killed  many  a  knighte. 
He  was  so  puissant  that  none  resist  him  mighte, 
But  he  did  almost  him  as  lightly  overthrow 
As  a  good  faucon  will  strike   downe  a  poore 

crowe. 
Willing  him  to  come  into  England  shortely. 
And  he  shoidd  be  rewarded  honorably. 
With  horse  and  armour  and  speare  would  perce 

and  frette, 
In  England  he  should  doe  some  valiaunte  feate. 
This  mightie  mann  to  Englaund  him  advaunced, 
He  hadd  better  have  taried  as  it  chaunced, 
And  thoughe  of  him  was  such  dredeful  fame 

and  brute,  [impute. 

The  Lord    Standley   did   him   never  the  more 
Thoughe   to    worke    secreatly   was   the   dukes 

intente, 
Yeat  the  Lord  Standley  knew  it  incontinent. 
Looking  for  comminge  of  his  geste  every  daye. 
And  provided  him  stoutely  for  such  a  fray. 
Now  is  this  dreadfiill  mann  comen  to  the  duke, 
Who  pretendid  to  put  Lord  Standley  to  rebuke. 


230 

And  when  he  was  comen  even  at  the  first, 
He  sent  to  Lord  Standley  to  just  if  he  durst. 
The  Lord  Standley  tooke  the  message  in  good 

worth,  [henceforth. 

Bad  point  the  time  and  place  where  he  wiU 
He  is  comen  from  farre,  I  redd  rest  him  a  while. 
Lest  his  foolish  enterprise  do  him  heguile, 
And  longer  then  him  list  let  him  not  forbeare, 
I  would  he  should  knowe  hit,  I  do  him  not  feare. 
But  send  him  defiance  with  all  my  harte, 
And  all  his  maintainance  the  king  set  a  parte. 
So  to  his  triumph  they  did  proceede  apace, 
The  day  was  pointed,  and  Smithfield  was  the 

place.  [tooke  payne ; 

To  view  these  champions  both  king  and  queene 
Of  lordes  and  ladies  with  them  a  noble  trayne. 
Now  these  menn  of  armes  be  commen  to  the 

campe, 
Theire  hardy  horses  apace  did  start  and  stampe. 
And  the  two  stoute  menn  tooke  neither  kreeke 

nor  crampe. 
Nor  with  cowardishe  were  striken  into  dampe. 
Quod  on,  A  mighty  outlandishe  man  is  this ; 
Quod  Lord  Standley,  My  harte  is  as  good  as  his ! 


231 

The  trumpets  gave  warning  and  blew  up  apace, 
Now  lustye  Lord  Standley,  God  send  thee  good 

grace. 
Together  they  rann  with  good  sharpe  speares  and 

greate, 
As  God  would  thoutlandish  man  missed  his  feate, 
For  the  Lord  Standley  with  his  greate  sturdy  staffe 
Hardly  overthrew  him  and  laid  him  abaffe ; 
At  the  first  race  he  killd  him  out  of  hand, 
And  brake  his  horse  backe  never  did  stande. 
Englishmen  rejoysed  his  expedition, 
The    sownd    of  trumpets    sounded   throughout 

London ; 
Of  people  could  not  have  ben  a  greater  shoute 
If  graves  had  opened  and  corses  comen  oute ! 
When  his  headpiece  was  of  vidthout  taring. 
On  horsbacke  presented  himself  to  the  king, 
And  said,  My  liege  lord,  your  grace  not  offended. 
Whoso  is  angry  with  my  deede  let  him  come 

amend  it, 
Christened  or  heathen,  whatsoever  he  be, 
I  here  defie  him,  excepting  no  degree ; 
And  turned  his  horse,  thinking  to  go  away : 
Quod  the  queene,  A  litle  tary,  Lord  Standelay. 


232 

Downe  shee  went  and  straighte  towards  him  doth 

repaire, 
With  a  trayne  of  ladies  right  goodly  and  faire. 
Said,  Hould,  lord,  for  your  valiaunte  enterprise 
A  ring  of  gould  with  a  diamonde  of  prise. 
Ye  be  worthie  have  it,  and  it  were  better. 
It  is  well  bestowed  and  to  no  mann  meeter. 
Thanked  her  humbly  and  courteously  againe. 
His  soverainge  lady  and  queene  to  take  such 

payne,  [mighte. 

And  what  lady  shall  neede  with  best  of  my 
For  such  service  as  this  let  me  be  your  knight. 
And  among  these  ladyes  there  was  his  owne  love. 
Who  was  more  than  glad  to  see  fortune  so  prove ; 
She  was  the  meriest  woman  in  all  this  thraive, 
She  smiled  in  her  sleeve  that  non  might  perceive. 
The  same  ring  and  diamond  that  the  queene  did 

geeve 
He  war€  on  his  chayne  as  long  as  he  did  hve. 
The    dukes    giftes    for   thoutlandishmans  fayre 

mountinge 
Lord  Standley  payde  it,  it  had  a  shorte  countinge. 
The  duke  seeing  his  worthines  and  courage. 
Caused  his  harte  much  yeald  to  the  mariadge. 


233 

And  soone  after  espowsed  they  were  in  deede, 
And  furthward  in  honor  they  did  well  proceede. 
Then  after  was  he  creat  incontinent 
Earle  of  Darby  at  the  nexte  parliament ; 
So  lived  with  honorable  laud  and  praise 
In  quiet  life  all  tyme  of  King  Edwards  dayes  ; 
Saved  King  Edward  had  a  busy  brother, 
That  was  called  Richard  Duke  of  Glocester, 
For  a  fond  fray  had  benne   amongeste  their 

tenantes,  [aunce, 

The  melancholicke  duke  tooke  to  much  griev- 
And  sware  by  cockes  bludd,  quod  he,  shortly  I 

shall 
Kill  the  Earle  of  Darby  and  burne  Lathum  hall. 
He  assembled  many  a  man  togeither, 
To    Preston    in    Amaundernes    brought    them 

thether. 
And  from  Lathum  hall  xij.  myles  no  further  way, 
For  honor  the  duke  had  better  ben  away. 
He  sent  to  the  earle  that  he  would  his  house  burne. 
And  also  kill  him,  or  do  him  a  worse  turne. 
When  the  earle  harde  that,  he  sware  by  Sainct 

Thomas, 
I  will  rather  meete  him  in  field  face  to  face ; 

30 


234 

I  payed  to  workmen  much  money  for  heyre, 
I  would  be  sory  to  see  my  house  on  fyre ; 
Though  he  be  the  kings  brother,  yeat  no  cause  why 
He  should  use  the  kings  subjects  unlawfully. 
At  Preston  was  the  duke  with  an  army  bigge, 
The  carle  cam  to  meete  him  hard  at  Rible  brigge, 
To  knowe  his  pleasure :  when  the  duke  therof 

hard,  [ward. 

He  would  byd  no  talke,  but  fast  toward  north- 
I  thinke  some  dreadfull  thinge  they  did  see  or 

heere,  feare. 

For  amongst  them  was  but  dickeduckfarte  for 
They  strove  for  the  vaward  who  might  lead  the 

way,  [fray ; 

Ofte  gazing  backward  as  menu  doubting  some 
What  they  brought  with  them  I  cannot  tell  of 

righte,  [lighte. 

The  tooke  nothing  with  them  but  that  was  very 
Where  they  lodged  something  they  left  in  every 

place. 
For  feare  of  being  nighted  spurred  a  pace. 
Preston  wished  each  weeke  such  companye, 
Thoughe  they  payde  no  shotte  but  leave  trum- 

panye. 


235 

There   had  beene   a  fray,  but  some  rann  from 

theire  good, 
And  yeat  to  this  day  is  called  Waltoun  woodde. 
Jacke  Moris  of  Wiggam  brought  the  duke  banner 
To  Wiggan  kirke,  yt  served  fourty  yeares  there. 
This  donne,  the  earle  mad  greate  speade  and  hast 

upward. 
With  hast  post  made  hast  to  noble  King  Edward, 
Kneeled  on  his  knee,  sayd.  My  lord  soveraigne, 
I  am  come  to  your  grace  me  to  complayne ; 
I  am  your  true  subject  never  me  abused, 
I  trust  you  wold  not  I  should  be  misused; 
The  duke's  grace  your  brother  but  even  nowe  of 
Undeserved  with  me  is  fallen  to  debate,      [late, 
Came  neere  to  my  house  with  a  greate  multitude. 
And  sent  a  message  to  me  that  is  very  rude, 
That  he  would  burne  my  house  and  also  me  kill, 
I  thought  to  doe  my  best  to  prevent  his  ill  will. 
And  though  I  was  your  subjecte  and  mann  onlye, 
As  redy  to  doe  you  serv^ice  as  he. 
And  subject  to  your  grace  and  to  none  other, 
Although  that  he  was  your  naturall  brother ; 
He  is  called  wise  that  such  rigour  withstandes, 
I  thought  better  put  myself  into  your  handes. 


236 

Rather  than  wittingly  to  see  my  house  burned, 
I  doubted  and  from  his  purpose  him  turned. 
I  went  to  meete  him,  but  not  followed  him  farre, 
And  used  but  only-  frindly  neighbour  warre  ; 
It  appeared  he  cam  not  for  good  entente, — 
Beseeching  your  grace  to  be  indifferente. 
Stand  up,  my  lord,  ye  be  welcome  hartely, 
I  am  sory  my  brother  did  so  lewdlye, 
He  is  my  brother,  I  cannot  that  deny. 
And  God  wot  some  time  will  do  full  folishly. 
I  pray  you,  my  lorde,  beare  with  him  for  this  tyme. 
And  I  shall  forsee  for  any  more  such  crime, 
I  trust  I  shall  declare  him  such  a  lesson, 
For  using  noble  menn  after  such  fashion ; 
It  was  to  princely  donne,  I  am  not  well  contente. 
On  king  in  a  realme  is  right  sufficient ; 
If  ever  he  playe  me  such  a  parte  againe, 
I  shaU  make  the  parte  perchaunce  to  his  payne. 
Though  he  be  my  brother,  yeat  neverthelesse 
I  may  not  nor  will  not  mainteyne  his  leaudnesse, 
I  must  use  my  noble  menn  favourably,         [me, 
I  must  mainteyne  them  and  they  must  mainteine 
And,  good  my  lord,  take  this  for  no  unkindnesse. 
When  my  brother  is  come,  I  shall  make  redresse. 


237 

On  the  third  daye  after  cam  the  duke  full  meete, 
The  king  gave  him  a  lesson  was  a  bitter  sweete  ; 
Though  he  was  his  brother,  he  let  him  well  knowe 
He  should  not  by  power  his  nobles  overthrowe. 
Soone  after  the  king  agreede  the  earle  and  the 

duke, 
Yeat  he  studied  still  to  put  the  earle  to  rebuke. 
But  as  happe  is  God  is  above  the  divell. 
He  devised  good  under  the  pretence  of  evell, 
That  his  secret  ire  in  maner  made  him  sicke, 
For  spite  desired  he  to  besiege  Barwicke ; 
And  said    he    doubted   not    soone    to   make   it 

Englishe, 
Not  so  minding  but  meaning  purpose  peevishe, 
Desiring  also  to  have  in  company 
The  Earles  of  Northumberland  and  Darby. 
The  duke  thought  nothing  lesse  in  his  ireful  harte, 
Thoughe  the  king  tooke  it  thankfuU  in  good  parte^ 
Sent  his  commissions  both  to  thone  and  to  thother 
They  should  prepare  them  to  waite  on  his  brother. 
The  Earle  of  Darby  perceived  he  must  goe, 
Thought  he  would  have  company e  inough  and  mo. 
And  did  mistrust  the  duke  as  he  worthy  was, 
A  man  of  greate  ire  and  of  litle  grace  ; 


238 

And  thoughe  the  duke  meaned  to  him  small  welfare, 
He  went  so  stronge  that  hee  neede  not  for  him  care. 
The  duke  tooke  with  him  the  Earle  of  Northum- 
berland, right  hand. 
And  would  needs  have  him  neare  him  on  his 
To  myles  from  the  towne  the  duke  camped  his 

hoste, 
The  Earle  of  Darby  but  haulf  a  myle  at  the  most. 
Then  the  duke  in  the  evening  on  the  third  daye 
Tooke  the  Earle  of  Northumberland  and  went 
his  way.  [gonne. 

When  the  Earle  of  Darby  harde  the  duke  was  so 
Then  he  perceived  his  false  collusion ; 
To  leave  him  in  danger  was  the  duke's  pretence, 
Therefor  so  hastily  the  duke  gat  him  thence. 
Thought  the  Earle  of  Darby,  is  the  duke  thus 

gonne  ? 
Surely  meaning  to  me  shame  hath  left  me  alone  ; 
If  it  may  happ  unto  myne  honor  redownde, 
Heare  will  I  leave  my  bones,  or  els  Barwicke 

confownde. 
The  day  before  the  duke  went  away  at  night. 
With  a  gunne  was  slayne  Sir  John  Dischfield, 
Knight ; 


239 

I  will  not  say  his  death  drove  the  duke  away, 
But  he  went  sodenly  and  late,  as  I  say. 
With  small  advisement,  and  all  the  hast  might  be. 
With  tentes  and  baggage  quickly  away  went  he. 
Reason  may  judge  that  either  for  feare  he  went, 
Or  meaning  to  the  earle  sum  mischievous  intent ; 
With  shame  is  he  gonne,  returned  not  againe,  . 
He  never  bod  field  ne  fray  but  when  he  was  slayne. 
Nowe  this  duke  with  all  his  company  is  gonne. 
And  hath  lefte  the  Earle  of  Darby  post  alone ; 
Not  long  before  this  time  King  of  Scottes  did 

sende 
To  the  Earle  of  Darby,  and  title  did  pretende 
To  the  ile  of  Mann,  and  badde  him  deliver  it. 
Els  with  sword  and  fire  he  would  worke  an  ill  fitte. 
The  earle  said  stoutly,  let  the  king  make  the  hast 

he  cann. 
Least  I  come  fro  Scotland  ere  I  come  to  Mann ! 
I  hould  non  of  him,  I  tooke  not  at  his  hand, 
I  hould  my  title  by  the  crowne  of  England ; 
Tell  the  king  even  thus  I  do  him  not  feare. 
For  ere  he  get  my  iland,  he  shall  buy  it  deare ; 
I  trust  I  shal  be  able  to  withstand  his  yll, 
And  not  trouble  my  king,  beging  when  he  will. 


240 

Then  therle  sente  to  the  king  for  a  commission 
To  enter  Scotland  of  his  owne  provision. 
King  Edwarde  tooke  it  well  therle  submission, 
And  put  the  matter  to  his  owne  disposition, 
And  by  his  commission  made  therle  his  chief- 

tayne ;  [payne, 

Still  when  he  sawe  good  time  to  worke  Scotland 
And  whan  he  perceived  the  duke  was  gonne  sure. 
He  thought  good  to  put  this  commission  in  ure. 
Therle  incontinent  did  himselfe  dispose 
Either  to  winne  great  honor  or  his  life  to  lose, 
And  to  his  counsell  wise  did  his  minde  disclose. 
In  the  next  morning  toward  Edenbourroughe  he 

goes. 
Passing  by  Barwicke  with  his  goodly  army. 
Willing  menn  and  forward,  right  tall  and  hardy, 
Lustie    Lancashire    laddes  with  this  carle  did 

wend. 
Hardy  Cherrin  and  Welshmen  were  not  behinde ; 
There  was  no  cowards,  but  hardy  company, 
There  was  scene  the  arte  of  noble  archery, 
Arrowes  strong  and  stiffe,  with  feathers  xij.  inches 

long. 
Which,  by  the  way  flying,  mad  a  lustie  song, 


241 

As  who  should  say,  I  come,  I  ridd  thee  take  heede, 
If  thou  dare  stand  stiffe,  I  dare  make  thee  bleede: 
Noe  straung  names  of  gunnes,  as  hagarbush  and 

such,  [much, 

All  those  dayes  were  knowne  since  have  ben  used 
The  beginning  thereof  all  England  may  shrewe. 
For  of  worthy  archers  I  thinke  be  mor  few ; 
England  hath  oft  there  enemies  assayled 
Though  archery  against  greate  oddes  prevayled. 
For  our  archery  it  hath  well  appeared. 
All  nations  have  us  greately  feared. 
Arrowes  were  wont  to  have  xij.  inches  of  feather, 
Nowe  but  six,  and  flyes  but  in  fayre  wether ; 
Then  arrowes  were  wont  to  pricke  theyre  enemies 

bloud, 
Now  are  they  gladd  to  pricke  xxij.  roode ; 
Arrowes  were  wont  to    flee   to   your  enemies 

payne,  [gaine ; 

And  nowe,  God  wotte,  they  flee  for  lucre  and 
Then  not  gybcrabes  nor  such  crafty  invention. 
Nor  false  shooting  booty  to  make  dyssention. 
They  drewe  to  the  hard  head,  not  there  shutt 

lybbing,  [drybinge ; 

Shoote   at    long   outmarkes,    now   fall   we   to 

31 


242 

Arrowes  gave  warning  to  stand  backe  or  do  worse; 
Now  a  shafte  scales  to  the  pricke  like  a  pikpurse. 
I  redd  us  maintain  archery  in  this  land, 
For  it  is  the  fayrest  flowre  in  our  garland. 
Now  is  this  earle  gon,  God  and  St.  George  him 

speede, 
And  passed  is  his  way  by  Barwicke  and  Tweede, 
Throughe  Scotland  to  Edenborough  is  he  gonn, 
Well  worthy  of  England  to  be  champion ; 
His  company  only  plaid  not  hardy  partes, 
But   likewise   to    their   master    shewed   loving 

hartes ; 
There  was  non  gave  backe  from  the  least  to  the 

most,  [most. 

But  rather  strove  who  might  set  his  foote  for- 
At  these  dayes  who  did  well  was  rewarded. 
Of  late  who  does  well  is  but  smally  regarded  ; 
A  fayre  worde  of  a  frinde  doth  a  good  harte  feede, 
And  where  on  beareth  love  will  joparde  in  deade, 
But  with   a  straung  captaine    not  looking  for 

meede,  [neade ; 

Makes  ofte  a  good  mann  to  shrynke  in  tyme  of 
The  profit  of  a  yonker  is  seen  somewhile 
A  straung  souldiour  a  straunge  capteine  beguile. 


243 

To  strange   captayne  to   put  men  is  a  fonde 

prancke,  [thanke. 

Who   list  jeopard   life  while   he   lookes  for  a 
These  men  were  the  erles  owne  menn,  there 

hartes  non  devided. 
And  ever  for  his  hurte  men  he  well  provided  ; 
I  never  knewe  non  that  with  him  cached  harme, 
That  after  did  begg,  but  kept  well  and  warme. 
It  seemed  in  Scotland  he  was  not  affrayed, 
But  went  to  Edenborough  with  banners  displayed, 
With  egle  and  child  fayre  wavering  in  the  winde, 
Which  comforted  souldiours  before  and  behinde ; 
To  Edenborough  cam  in  the  morning  the  next 

daye. 
And  to  the  greate  gates  he  tooke  the  redy  way ; 
When  they  came,  the  greate  gates  were  open  set ; 
They  entred  apace,  not  doubting  fray  nor  let ; 
The  Scottes  at  that  tyme  had  of  them  litle  feare, 
But  playnely  thought  they  durst  not  have  entred 

there. 
It  seemed  the  earle  cared  not  for  gayne  or  losse. 
For  in  complet  harnesse  he  stoode  at  the  crosse ; 
The  King  of  Scottes  hearing  and  seeing  the  same, 
Mad  proclamation  in  King  Edwards  name, 


244 

As  King  of  England,  Fraunce,  and  Scotland  also : 
Of  such  a  subjects  actes  I  reed  of  no  mo, 
Neither  Englyshmenn  nor  of  other  nation, 
Without  a  kings  power  make  like  proclamation. 
When  he  had  taried  there  a  good  honest  space. 
He  returned  homeward  a  softe  souldiers  pace. 
And  marched  meetely  in  fayre  battle  aray. 
And  straight  again  to  Barwick  he  tooke  the  way. 
The   Scottes  made  greate  shewes    in   harnesse 
black  as  soote,  [foote. 

But  they  would  never  byd  on  horsbacke  nether 
First  day  he  camped  in  Scotland  beyond  Tweede, 
The  next  day  he  came  neer  Barwicke  in  dead, 
The  other  morning,  by  dawning  of  the  daye. 
With  the  stoute  souldiers  of  this  Earle  Standley; 
The  towne  of  Barwicke  was  environed. 
Very  well  shielded,  very  well  trenched ; 
And  bad  the  Scottes  good  morowe  with  a  peale 
of  gonnes,  [sonnes. 

Which  made  them  quickely  to  start  up  like  good 
This  stoute  earle  lay  there  many  a  day  and  night. 
There  he  made  Edward  his  second  sonne  a  knight. 
With  many  mo  then  I  can  redily  tell  [well. 

Were  made  knights,  and,  God  wot !  deserved  it 


245 

The  king  hearing  of  this  vahaunte  enterprise, 
He  straight,  Hke  a  noble  prince  and  a  wise. 
Sent  him  a  greate  summe  of  silver  and  gould. 
And  bad  him  send  for  menn   what  place  he 

would, 
With  greate  thankes,  to  Lancashire, Cheshire,  and 

Wales,  [the  walles  scalles  ; 

Through  comforte  whereof  the  menn  straighte 
Though  they  were  backed,  their  manhood  was 

neverthelesse. 
Soone  after  manfully  they  did  hit  redresse. 
And  tooke  of  theire  enemies  the  Scottes  greate 

vengaunce. 
And  still  put  them  to  wonderfuU  greevaunce. 
The  winning  of  this  towne  and  the  carles  good 

chaunce  [stance. 

Would  aggravate   hearers  with  much  circum- 
But  to  make  shorte,  and  speake  of  that  is  most 

nead,  [indeed. 

With  manhood  and  sore  strokes  wann  the  towne 
This  same  noble  carle,  this  valiaunte  Standelay, 
Till  he  had  the  towne  he  would  not  sure  away ; 
In  King  Edwards  name  he  did  the  towne  receive, 
With  bagge  and  baggage  he  let  go  all  the  lave. 


246 

And  put  in  Englishmen  an  honest  number, 

So  lafte  it  Enghshe  without  cumber. 

Thus    Barwicke    became    Enghshe    by   therle 

Standelay, 
There  is  no  true  man  that  therto  dare  say  nay; 
A  thousand  four  hundred  btxij.  no  doubt 
Barwicke  was  made  Enghshe,  or  neere  there- 

aboute. 
At  his  returne  home  he  had  thankes  notable. 
The   king   made   him    of    England   the   highe 

constable. 
Now  heare  I  do  reporte  me  to  you  all 
If  this  acte  be  not  worthy  a  memoriale ; 
I  thinke  ould  true  chronicles  be  gonne  there 

wayes, 
Stollen  or  purloyned  from  suppressed  abbayes ; 
Croniclers  to  flattery  have  such  respecte. 
They  set  in  trifles,  and  noble  actes  neglecte. 
As,   such   time  William  Home   was  maior  of 

London, 
Sherifies  William  Fynkle  and  John  Rymyngton, 
A  bushel  of  wheate  vi^,  iii*?  bay-salt, 
Cronicled  there  wheate   was   with    you    under 

mault ; 


247 

Next  yeare  divers  bakers  were  put  on  pillory : 
These  be  high  matters  to  put  in  memory ! 
In  Oxford,  Robin  Karper  killed  a  louse, 
I  assure  you  a  highe  point  in  a  lowe  house. 
Croniclers  have  used  much  flattering  phrases 
To  put  in  some  lies,  and  leave  that  worthy  praise  is. 
This  noble  earle,  with  valiant  victory. 
Is  returned  home  with  his  stoute  company e. 
Now  let  us  somewhat  speake  of  Richard  the  duke, 
That  pretended  to  put  this  earle  to  rebuke. 
And  that  which  he  wrought  to  be  his  confusion 
Redounded  to  the  carles  honor  in  conclusion. 
Then  this  duke  and  earle  were  better  made  at  on. 
Living  quietly  till  King  Edward  was  gonne. 
Edward    Fourth   is  dead,  Edward  fifte  should 

raigne, 
Poore  infant,  alas !  in  the  towne  he  lyes  slayne 
Through  his  uncle  Richard,  most  unnaturall, 
For  which  soone  after  he  had  a  shamefull  fall. 
O  Richard,   Richard,   what  hast  thou  thereby 

wonne, 
So  cruelly  to  kill  thine  owne  brother's  sonne  ? 
For  covetousenes  so  destroyed  thine  owne  bloud, 
Slewe  an  innocent  and  didst  thyselfe  small  good. 


248 

But  when  the  prince  was  dead  and  so  laid  in 

mould,  [might  be  bould ; 

Then  to  weare  the  crowne  thou  thought  thou 
But  when  thou  had  it,  thou  came  to  it  with  shame, 
Shortely  lost  thy  life,  and  for  ever  thy  good  name. 
If  thou  had  permitted  God  to  make  thee  heyre, 
Before  God  and  man  thy  right  had  ben  more 

fayre.  [wrought, 

He  should  make  heyres  that  thy  monstrous  body 
The  enterprise  of  his  office  brought  thee  to  nought. 
Thus,  lo  !  Richard  the  usurper  was  made  king, 
A  mercilesse  manne  and  a  monstrous  thinge, 
A  wretched  body  and  a  tyrante  in  harte, 
A  devill  in  his  deedes,  deformed  in  ech  parte ; 
In  the  yeare  of  our  lord  his  raigne  began  he, 
A  thowsand,  foure  hundred,  fourescore  and  three. 
Sitting  in  the  towre  of  counsell,  sodenly 
He  stroke  of  Lord  Hastings  head  cruelly ; 
And  on  Boswell  of  his  guard  with  an  halbarte 
Strooke    the    carle    of  Darby,    I   beshrew   the 

Boswell's  harte  !  [horde. 

But  that  the  carle  quickely  stooped  under  the 
There  had  he  been  slayne  never  have  spoken 

word. 


249 

The  king  kepte  him  still  till  his  head  was  whole, 
To  let  the  earle  goe  home  the  king  might  not 

well  thole ; 
Yeat  at  length  King  Richard  thought  good  for  a 

chaunge, 
To  let  the  earle  goe  and  keepe  his  son  Lord 

Straunge. 
To  proceede  quickly  and  theron  not  tary, 
To  avenge  God's  quarell  came  in  King  Harry, 
And  brought  no  mo  with  him  but  five  hundred 

menn  ; 
Right  quickly  therle  of  Darby  went  to  him  then, 
And  his  brother,  Sir  William  Standelay,  stoute 

knighte, 
These  two  were  cheife  helpers  of  him  to  his  right. 
When    Richard  went  to  field   to  meete  King 

Henry, 
Lord  Straunge  with  him  his  prisoner  did  cary, 
King  Rychard   sent  quikly  word  to  the  Earle  of 

Darby,  [Straunge  dy : 

To   come    take   his    parte    or   his  sonne    Lord 
He  bad  make  meate  of  him  to  eate  with  his 

spoone,  [doone ; 

And   he  would  visit   him    ere  the  feast  were 

32 


250 

And  sent  him  word  he  had  killed  his  master, 
He  tooke  him  for  no  king  but  for  an  usurper. 
The  Lord  Straung  to  be  headded  was  brought  out 

twise,  [wise, 

Yeat  reprived  through  such  concell  as  seemed 
Said,  after  field  take  the  Standelays  together, 
And  head  them  or  hang  them  all  in  a  tether  : 
But  that  same  day  was  Richard  the  murderer. 
On  horsebacke  naked  brought  to  Leicester. 
Then   therle    of    Darby  without    taking    more 

reade, 
Straighte  set  the  crowne  on  King  Harry  the 

Seaventh  his  heade.  [ryfe. 

Sir  William  Standleyes  tongue  was  somewhat  to 
For  a  fonde  worde  he  spake  soone  after  he  lost 

his  lyfe,  [maye. 

Said,  set  it  on  thine  owne  head,  for  nowe  thou 
King  Henry  afterwarde  hard  tell  of  that  saye  : 
In  such  cause  is  not  meete  with  princes  to  boorde. 
Good  service  may  be  soone  loste  with  a  fonde 

woorde. 
At  Bosworth  did  Harry  Richards  life  deprive. 
And  lefte  the  Lord  Straunge,  thankes  be  to  God, 

on  live ; 


251 

Like  sacke  on  liorsebacke, without  cover  or  shield, 
Was  Richard  brought  to  Leicester  from  the  field. 
Lo,  the  ende  of  his  covetousnesse  and  glorye, 
And  the  successe  of  his  cruell  tyrannye ! 
Thus  died  he  wretchedly  with  many  a  coorse, 
Yeat  I  feare  his  after  paynes  was  much  woorse. 
A  thowsand  foure  hundred  foure  score  and  five 
Reigned  seavent  Harry e,  toke  Elizabeth  to  wife, 
The  eldest  doughter  of  Kinge  Edwarde  was  she, 
And  verye  mother  of  the  eighte  King  Henry e. 
The  redde  rose  and  white  were  joyned  there  in 

one,  [gonne. 

God  have  mercy  on  theire  soules,  they  be  all 
Nowe  to  this  noble  earle  we  will  tume  backe, 
Him  further  to  praise  a  litle  yeat  I  lacke ; 
And  of  his  three  sonnes  who  were  honorable. 
To  serve  God  and  theire  prince  were  prudent 

and  able. 
Hemaried  his  first  George  to  no  ferme  nor  grange, 
But  honorably  to  the  hey  re  of  the  Lord  Strange. 
Who  lived  in  such  love  as  no  man  els  had, 
At  the  death  of  him  divers  went  almost  mad ; 
At  an  ungodly  banckquet  was  poysoned, 
And  in  London  at  S'*  Buttells  lyes  buried. 


252 

Thus   throughe    a    vayne    mistruste    and    false 

jelousye, 
This  stoute  gentleman  yll  cast  away  was  he. 
His  second  sonne  Edwarde  maried  to  an  heyre, 
A  thowsand  markes  a  yeare  of  good  landes  and 

fay  re. 
His  plainge  of  instrumentes  was  a  good  noyse, 
His  singing  as  excellent  with  a  sweete  voyce  ; 
His  countenaunce  comely  with  visage  demure, 
Not  moving  nor  streining,  but  stedfast  and  sure. 
He  would  shewe  in  a  single  recorder  pipe 
As  many  partes  as  any  in  a  haggepipe. 
When  the  king  of  Castyle  was  driven  hyther 
By  force  and  violence  of  stormye  wether, 
He    broughte    with   him    were    thoughte    fine 

.    musitions, 
There  was  none  better  in  theyre  opinions ; 
Kinge  of  Castile  said,  theyre  actes  more  to  able, 
They  were  gentlemen  of  houses  notable. 
I  have,  quoth  Henry  seaventhe,  a  knighte  my 

servante, 
One  of  the  greatest  carles  sonnes  in  all  my  land, 
His  singing  gallante  with  a  voyce  most  sweetelye, 
His  plainge  pleasante  much  better  then  meetelye; 


253 

He  playes  of  all  instrumentes,  non  comes  amisse ; 
Call  Sir  Edward  Standley :  lo,  sir,  heere  he  is ! 
Come  neere,  good  Sir  Edward  Standelaye,  quod 

the  king,  [ninge. 

For  the  honowre  of  us  shewe  parte  of  your  con- 
He  stoode  before  the  kinges,  doubtlesthis  was  true. 
In  a  fayre  gowne  of  cloth  of  gould  of  tissiue. 
Like  no   common  minstrell  to   shewe   taveme 

myrth. 
But  like  a  noble  mann  both  of  land  and  byrth ; 
He  shewed  much  conning  those  two  kings  before, 
That  the  others  had  no  luste  to  playe  any  more. 
He  played  of  all  instrumentes  notable  well ; 
But  of  all  thinges  mused  king  of  Castell, 
To  heare  two  partes  in  a  single  recorder, 
That  was  beyond  all  their  estimations  far. 
And  then  King  Harry  made  him  to  blowe  his 

borne,  [borne ; 

They  had  never  hard  such  one  since  they  were 
In  no  realme  any  for  true  and  fyne  blowinge. 
Since  Tristram  the  prince   of   huntesman  was 

livinge,  [make. 

In  two  homes  at  once  would  a  wonderouse  noyse 
In  the  one  rochate  and  in  the  other  strake. 


254 

Blowinge  divers  measures  was  very  diffuse, 
Before  kings  and  others  he  did  it  of  use. 
He  had  more  quallities  Hke  a  gentleman 
Then  in  all  his  time  had  any  other  mann, 
And  for  his  hardines,  to  saye  truth  and  righte, 
He  was  a  stoute  mann  and  a  valiante  knight, 
As  at  the  deathe  of  King  Jamye  did  appeere ; 
He  used  himselfe  so  valiante  there,  [after 

That  King  Harry  the  eighte  made  him  soone 
Of  that  noble  order  knight  of  the  garter. 
And  created  him  Lord  Mountegle  by  that  name, 
Seeinge  he  had  right  well  deserved  the  same. 
Sheriffs  of  Lancashire  he  was  made  full  sure, 
And  well  enjoyed  it  while  his  life  did  endure, 
With  Amdernes  and  Booland  that  fayre  forest, 
With  many  mo  good  thinges  he  had  well  in  rest. 
Parland  by  Colbrooke  King  Henry  did  him  give, 
And  well  enjoyed  it  so  long  as  he  did  live  ; 
He  thought  it  so  sure  by  the  kings  promisinge. 
That  he  spent  there  xij.   hundred  pownds  on 

buildinge. 
Cardinall  Wolsey,  being  Lord  Chaunceler, 
Si.aied  the  greate  scale,  which  lost  it  his  heyres 

after. 


255 

This  was  Sir  Edward  Standley,  the  earles  second 

Sonne,  [wonne ; 

Who  at  the   Scottishe    field  much  honor  had 
Edward  his  bastard  sonne,  but  eighteene  yeares 

of  age, 
Did  beare  his  standard  with  hardy  courage. 
That  time  was  second  Thomas  Earle  of  Darbye, 
Beyond  sea  in  Fraunce  viij*'*  king  Henrye, 
A  noble,  vertuous,  godly  earle  was  hee, 
A  charitable  and  full  of  greate  pittie, 
For  all  goodes  and  landes  be  under  the  sunne, 
He  would  not  wittingly  eny  wronge  have  donne, 
But  soone  as  it  came  to  his  intelligence. 
Incontinently  would  make  due  recompence ; 
In  Fraunce  helped  many  souldiours  in  distresse, 
All  the  world  loved  him  for  his  gentlenesse. 
He  did  all  men  righte,  good  to  the  poore  withall, 
Wherefore    his  good   deades  be   better  to  his 

soule. 
He  served  God  wel,  and  much  did  fast  and  praye, 
Such  one  to  the  poore  hath  not  beene  manye  a 

daye. 
He  was  egre  and  forward  in  all  his  factes. 
That  he  wanne  much  honor  for  his  noble  actes ; 


256 

And  in  both  the  realmes  this  cannot  be  denayed, 
His  banners  and  standards  at  once  were  displayed. 
So  was  no  mo  lordes  in  England,  earle  ne  duke, 
Thankes  be  to  God,  in  neither  place  had  rebuke. 
Served  his  king  against  two  kinges  on  a  day, 
Captain  of  his  menn  was  Sir  Harry  Kighley ; 
Sir  John  Standley  at  that  field  was  presente  then, 
A  forward  captayne,  withBishopp  Standleys  men, 
Lord  Mountagle  of  those  had  proeheminence. 
He  was  chiefe  Lancashire  mann  in  therles  absence. 
Lancashire  and  Wales  did  nobly  in  that  fraye. 
The  king  made  of  them  twenty  knightes  on  a  daye ; 
That  they  were  styife  and  stoute,  and  rann  not 

away,  [pr^ye ; 

England  hath  yeat  cause  for  theyre  soules  to 
Syth  death  doth  there  bodies  and  lives  dissever, 
Deare  God  keepe  there  soules  for  ever  and  ever. 
Yt  was    never    scene,    theire    captayne   being 

Standlay,  [awaye. 

That    Lancashire,    Chessire,    and  Wales    ranne 
His  third  sonne  was  James,  a  goodly  man,  a  priest, 
Yeat  litle  pristes  metall  was  in  him,  by  Christ ; 
As  many  (more  pittye)  sacred  orders  take 
For  promotion  rather  then  for  Christes  sake, 


257 

And  ofte  most  longe  of  frindes,  the  very  truth  to 

tell, 
It  is  a  greate  grace  if  such  on  doe  prove  well. 
Greate  abuse  in  priesthoode  and  matrimony, 
When  fancie  of  frindes  shall  choose  for  the  party e. 
A  goodly  tall  man  as  was  in  all  England, 
And  sped  all  matters  that  he  tooke  in  hand. 
King  Harry  the  seaventh,  a  prince  noble  and  sage, 
Made  him  bushoppe  for  wisedome  and  parentage. 
Of  Eely  many  daye  was  he  bushoppe  there, 
Builded  Somersame,  the  bushoppes  chiefe  manor 
A  greate  viander  as  any  in  his  dayes,        [there  ; 
Twobushoppes  that  then  was,  this  is  not  disprayse. 
Because  he  was  a  priest  I  dare  doe  no  lesse. 
But  looke  as  I  knewe  not  of  his  hardinesse. 
What  priest  hath  a  blow  on  the  one  eare  sodenlye, 
Tume  the  other  likewise  for  humilitye ; 
He  would  not  so  doe  by  the  crosse  in  my  purse. 
And  yeat  I  trust  his  soule  fareth  never  the  worse. 
For  he  did  actes  bouldly  divers  in  his  dayes. 
If  he  had  beene  no  priest  had  beene  worthye 

prayse. 

He  did  end  his  life  in  mery  Mainchester, 

And  right  honorably  lies  buried  there, 

33 


258 

In  his  chappell  which  he  begann  of  free  stone. 
Sir  John  Standley  made  it  out  when  he  was  gonne; 
God  send  his  soule  to  the  heavenly e  company e, 
Farewell,  goodly  James  bushoppe  of  Ely. 
Of  this  carles  three  sonnes  heere  I  have  you  tould, 
Who  were  all  noble  men  valiante  and  bould, 
Yeat  is  there  one  whome  I  maye  not  well  forget, 
To  saie  something  to  his  prayse  I  will  not  let. 
Of  Thomas  Lord  Mountegle,  sonne  to  Edward, 
A  stoute  hardye  knighte,  yeat  gentle  not  foroward, 
And  in  the  kings  warres  valiaunte  and  forward, 
As  in  Scotland  he  shewed  himself  no  coward, 
But  redy,  on  horsebacke  or  foote,  nighte  and  day, 
At  skry  or  skirmishe  neaver  absent  away; 
For  his  readines  he  was  worthy  greate  praise. 
Not  long  ago,  in  King  Henry  the  eightes  dayes, 
A  fayre  man  on  horsbacke  as  ever  on  horse  rode, 
And  sure  in  his  sadell  as  ever  horse  bestrode ; 
Hath  lefte  behinde  him  on  memoriall  sure, 
His  free  gentlenes  to  every  creature. 
Yf  a  poore  mann  had  donne  him  courtesye, 
He  was  againe  with  speach  or  cappe  as  ready. 
Whereby  undoubted  he  wanne  love  and  renowne, 
And  each  mann  did  laud  him  in  countrey  and  towne ; 


259 

He  loved  mirth  and  musicke  and  a  good  songe, 
More  pittie  his  fortune  was  not  to  hve  longe. 
Now  noble  Thomas  departed  is  he, 
At  whose  funerall  was  many  weeping  eye, 
Many  doth  for  him  praye,  non  doth  curse  and 

banne, 
Which  seemed  he  was  a  charitable  man. 
Yeat  of  his  noble  succession  divers  be 
Righte  honorable  and  righte  greate  praise  worthy; 
As  Edward  that  righte  noble  Earle  of  Darby, 
Greate  houskeeper  of  all  England  is  he, 
God  save  his  life,  for  as  longe  as  he  doth  live, 
Condigne  laud  and  praise  my  penne  may  him  not 

give. 
Nor  of  his  children  ther  noble  worthinesse. 
Being  yeat  living  I  may  it  not  expresse, 
For  feare  it  should  be  thought  a  flattering  parte, 
I  must  stay  my  penn  contrary  to  my  harte. 
And  laud  them  litle  or  nothing  at  all, 
Lest  it  chaunce  my  doing  be  judged  partiall. 
I  referre  to  those  that  live  when  I  am  donne. 
To  make  a  full  end  of  that  I  have  begunne. 
Yeat  is  there  three  impes  so  well  have  played  the 
That  with  honesty  I  cannot  stay  my  penne,  [men. 


260 

Who  in  there  youthes  did  jopard  their  Hfe  so  sore, 
I  most  say  something,  thoughe  they  deserved 

more. 
First  WiUiam  Lord  Mountegle,  sonne  to  Thomas, 
Who  in  his  tyme  second  Lord  Mountegle  was ; 
This  Wilham  bestowed  himselfe  in  his  tender  age. 
In  warres  against  the  Scottes  with  manly  courage. 
Without  the  consent  of  kinne  or  creature, 
Amonges  the  ireftdl  Scottes  tooke  his  adventure. 
Much  honor  with  greate  daungers  he  did  deserve. 
But  God  and  his  manhoode  did  him  still  prseserve. 
All  skryes  and  skirmishes  he  well  observed, 
And  with  his  bright  brand  manfully  cutte  and 
carved;  [day, 

That  newes  came  from  Scotland  almost  day  by 
How   non   played   the   man   like    Sir  William 

Standlay. 
Amonge  other  actes  which  be  right  notable. 
Forget  not,  Scottes,  ye  knowe  it  is  no  fable, 
Remember  Swynketon  Chase,  there  ye  Scottes 

him  tried. 
Like  a  very  mann  there  he  haded  your  pryde ; 
Be  no  whitte  ashamed  to  heare  of  that  day, 
Being  five  to  one  he  made  you  runne  away. 


261 

Longe  of  him  only  therefore  it  was  his  acte, 
Through  his  stoute  advauncement  all  the  Scottes 

were  backte  ; 
He  begonne  the  onset  himselfe,  and  no  man  els. 
All  menn  that  were  there  declare  this  and  tells  ; 
Drue  his  sword,  and  faste  ranne  to  the  Scottes,  then 
Said,  Follow  me,  felowes,  all  ye  that  be  menn ; 
And  then  with  a  greate  shoute  they  followed  him 

apace, 
Longe  of  his  hardy  onset  God  wrought  this  grace. 
Such  Englishmen  as  were  minded  to  take  flighte, 
Turned  manfully  throughe  this  valiaunte  knighte ; 
He  bad  foUowe,  he  bad  not  goe  before. 
His  acte  was  honorable  so  much  the  more. 
The  veangeaunce  that  the  Scottes  thought  to  the 

Englishmen 
Light  on  themselfes,  thanks  be  to  God,  Amen. 
Yeat  hardly  Scottes  forget  this  yrefuU  daye 
When    thenglishemen    cryed,    A    Standley,    a 

Standley !  [cares, 

Me  thinke  the  sounde  therof  should  sticke  in  your 
I  dare  say  many  Scottes  of  ould  that  name  feares  ; 
Thinges  so  worthy  memory  perpetuall 
Ought  to  be  written  for  a  memoriall. 


262 

That  day  was  Sir  William  Standley  generall, 
Thus  saved  his  menn  and  wann  honor  withall. 
I  beseech  God  longe  in  honor  him  preserve, 
I  may  not  so  praise  him  as  he  did  deserve: 
When  he  is  gonne  and  dead,  as  Jesu  him  save. 
Then  shall  abroade  the  fame  he  is  v^^orthy  have, 
And  from  his  yll  willers  Jesu  him  defend, 
Heerof  some  good  man  heereafter  may  make  end. 
Howe  yonge  Sir  William  worthyly  hath  wrought, 
In  warre  wanne  much  honor  and  dearely  hit 

bought,  [pranckes, 

He  oughte  to  have  dame  Fame  for  his  hardy 
For  oughte  I  perceive  he  had  small  other  thankes. 
Seconde  impe  Sir  Edwarde  Standley  fine  and 

handsome, 
Who  on  both  the  sides  of  hardy  kinne  doth  come. 
On  the  stoute  Standleys  that  allwayes  doth  abyde. 
And  the  hardy  Hawardes  on  the  other  syde. 
He  not  passinge  on  and  twenty  yeares  of  age, 
With  wild  Scottes  and  Irishe  proved  his  courage, 
He  doubted  not  the  dintes  of  any  manes  hande. 
He  was  both  hard  and  hardy  on  sea  and  land ; 
Amongest  his  enimies  in  daunger  divers  wayes. 
He  foughte  not  for  pillage  but  only  for  prayse  ; 


263 

A  greate  matter  that  such  a  yonge  impe  as  he 
Emonge  mercilesse  menn  voyd  of  all  pittie, 
And  comminge  of  such  noble  parentage, 
But  it  came  of  greate  valiaunte  courage. 
Heere  the  ould  proverbe  true  in  him  we  may  see, 
Tymely  crookes  the  boughe  that  good  camock 

wil  be. 
To  put  him  in  presse  amonges  people  froward, 
Especiall  ones  where  he  scaped  so  hard. 
They  gote  him  in  a  streete  with  a  wyly  trayne, 
Where  he  fought  manfully  or  ells  had  beene 

slayne  ; 
To  helpe  no  pollicy  could  countervayle. 
But  his  very  manhoode  did  his  lyfe  prevayle. 
I  red  of  non  so  yonge  a  man,  nor  I  thinke  never 

shall. 
So  stoutely  winne  and  come  from  them  all, 
To  therle  of  Southsex,  his  kinsman  righte  neere, 
Who  at  that  present  time  was  chieftayne  there, 
And  lord  deputy  visiting  the  north  border. 
Who  with  his  manhood  held  them  in  good  order. 
He  honorably  tooke  this  journey  in  hand. 
Many  myles  by  sea,  to  James  Macke  Conells 

lande. 


264 

There  did  burne  and  spoyle,  and  taried  divers 

dayes,  [praise. 

So  returned  homewards  with  greate  honor  and 
Sir  Edward  Standley  was  with  him  presently, 
On  sea  and  land  non  more  hardy  and   stoute 

then  he.  [Standley, 

And  there  was  the  third  impe,  blacke  Sir  George 
Who  never  shrancke  at  neade  in  fild  nor  in  fray, 
He  shewed  him  a  boorde  of  the  true  neast  right 

well. 
Hardy  as  Hancke,  an  old  ladde  of  the  castell ; 
He  would  not  shrincke  neither  on  horsebacke  nor 

on  foote,  [soote ; 

But  byd  byllinge  bouldley,  hke  the  ould  blacke 
Amongest  his  enimies  environed  full  ofte, 
But  ever  he  gate  him  roome  his  strokes  were 

not  softe. 
Divers  times  was  he  unfrindly  betrapped, 
But  still  when  he  was  amongest  them  unwrapped. 
He  stoutely  upon  them  so  manfully  rapped, 
And  cutte  them  so    sore    and   on   the    seniles 

knapped,  [cramorcry ! 

He  made  them  crye,  Kroughe  krishe  shave  my 
Well  was  him  sonest  could  get  away  and  flye. 


265 

He  used  with  them  such  hardy  feates  and  trickes, 
Non  such  before  came  am^onge  the  kekryckes, 
Of  his  degree  in  Ireland  even  very  mon, 
In  all  kind  of  daungers  he  was  ever  on, 
And  still  wann  worshippe,  honor  I  may  it  call, 
Whie  not  being  so  hardy  and  liberaU ; 
I  flatter  not  nor  looke  for  meade  or  living. 
All  byrdes  of  that  neast  may  rejoyce  his  doing. 
He  was  longe  knight  marshall,  nowe  I  saye  no 

more, 
But  God  give  him  like  loocke  he  hath  had  before. 
Nowe  againe  with  the  first  earle  I  make  ende. 
To  tell  truth  of  the  dead  should  no  man  offend. 
For  there  is  no  doubte  when  low  layd  is  the 

heade,  [spreade. 

If  we  deserve  such   reporte  dame    Fame  will 
Let  us  truste  no  lesse  in  this  world  and  the  nexte, 
God  regardes  no  mans  personn,  saith  the  texte. 
Syth  I  have  declared  heartofore  playnly 
Of  his  worthy  actes  and  noble  chyvalry, 
I  will  somewhat  in  other  matters  proceede. 
Of  his  edyfices  will  speake  in  dead. 
First  he  buildedfayre  Lathum  out  of  the  grownde. 
Such  a  bowse  of  that  age  cannot  be  fownde, 

34 


266 

I  meane  not  for  the  beauty  therofe  only, 

But  each  office  sitte  so  necessary, 

Both  fayre  and  large,  and  in  place  so  apte  and 

meete, 
With  each  on  a  fayre  well  with  water  full  sweete. 
Save  only  the  pantry,  which  therof  had  no  neade, 
Butler,  seller,  kitchin  be  noble  in  deade. 
King  Henry  the  Seaventh,  who  did  lye  their  eight 

dayes. 
And  of  all  houses  he  gave  it  the  most  praise. 
And  his  haule  at  Richmond  he  puUd  downe  all, 
To  make  it  up  againe  after  Latham  hall ; 
To  speake  of  his  fare  was  sure  so  excellente, 
The  king  and  his  company  so  well  contente, 
I  hard  noble  men  say  that  were  of  his  trayne, 
They  thought  they  should  never  se  such  faire 

againe. 
The  king  and  all  mused  how  he  such  fare  did  get. 
They  sawe  never  king  have  lyke  chiere  of  a  sub- 

jecte;  [the  ould. 

And  each  meale  newe  plate,  they  saw  no  more 
Silver  nor  gdte,  onlesse  it  were  playne  gould ; 
Counseller  nor  head  officer  was  there  non, 
But  the  chamberpottes  were  fine  silver  each  on ; 


267 

The  earles  buttry  and  seller  open  night  and  day, 
Come  who  would  and  welcome,  no  man  was  said 

nay: 
After  aU  such  cheere  yeat  he  gave  such  a  thinge. 
Was  a  princely  gifte  to  such  a  noble  king, 
Pictures  of  all  apostles  he  gave  him  all  twelve, 
Of  silver  and  gwylte,  also  of  Christ  himselfe. 
To  parte  with  them  would  have  made   some 

mannes  harte  sory. 
For  they  were  each  on  a  cubite  lenghe  and  more; 
In  the  Jewell  house  who  so  liste  to  desire, 
May  se  them  if  they  be  not  hurte  with  fyre : 
Thus  is  this  king  gon  with  honorable  cheere, 
Which  was  remembred  after  many  yeare. 
And  propper  Greenehoghe  tower  also  he  builded, 
Which  hath  fewe  fellowes  all  thinges  considered, 
Of  pretty  straunge   fashion   made  all  of  free 

stones,  [both  at  ones, 

Yeat  two  lordes  may  well  keepe  howse  there 
And  the  one  not  troble  the  other  anye  white. 
So  made  of  small  compasse  came  of  a  greate 

witte.  [ration. 

At  Handen  and  Knowesley  made  a  greate  repa- 
And  on  Robert  Rochdale  was  his  free-mason ; 


268 

Curstange  bridge  that  standes  on  the  river  of  Wyer, 
Rochdale   made   the  same  on   this  earles  coste 

and  hire, 
And  Warington  was  kepte  a  commen  ferry, 
Which  polled  the  people  unresonably  ; 
None  might  go  to  or  fro  on  horsbacke  nor  foote. 
But  paye   ere  they   past,  there  was  no  other 

boote. 
The  good  earle  considering  the  peoples  coste, 
And  to  make  the  way  more  ready  to  runne  poste. 
Being  tediouse  to  passe  by  boate  or  by  barge, 
The  earle  made  a  goodly  bridge  on  his  owne 

coste  and  charge  ; 
With  another  good  substantiall  purveiaunce. 
Also  gave  landes  therto  for  it  maintaynance ; 
This  was  a  noble  harte,  liberall,  and  kinde. 
And   people  will  praye   for  him  tyme    out  of 

mynde. 
And  Paules  Chayne  in  London  he  made  a  howse 

full  fayre,  [repayre ; 

And  his  howse  in  Holborne  he  did  righte  well 
At  Colham  courte  and   Cadysdayne   he  made 

greate  coste, 
Jesu  save  his  soule,  there  was  no  labour  lost ! 


269 

When  Lathum  manor  was  made  after  not  longe, 
A   gentlemann    sayd.   My   lord,   this  howse  is 

stronge,  [quaking. 

And  enemies  came  neare,  they  would  fall  on 
Quod  he,  I  have  a  stronger  wall  a  making. 
That  is  my  neighbours  to  get  theyre  god  willes 

all, 
To  love  me  truelly,  that  is  a  stronger  wall ! 
He  used  them  so  he  did  them  thereto  bringe, 
Excepte  a  fewe  which  thereby  wann  nothinge ; 
Whoso  loved  him  he  did  to  him  the  same. 
And  who  loved  him  not  gate  but  losse  or  shame. 
But  the  chiefest  thinge  that  gate  the  people's 

love,  [move 

WTien  Henry  the   Seavanth  first  exaccion  did 
Lancashire  and  Chessyre  first  fifteene  to  pay, 
The  people  grudged  and  in  maner  said  nay. 
The  king  hard  therof,  was  greeved  in  his  harte, 
And  there  the  loving  carle  plaied  a  frindly  parte, 
Well  considering  the  state  of  his  countrey. 
Went  to  the    exchecker  and  laide  downe  the 

mony.  [payde. 

Sir,  saide,  your  feefetaene  in  the  exchecker  is 
Of  Lanchashire  and  Chessyre,  it  was  not  denayed. 


270 

I  am  glad,  saide  the  king,  it  does  so  well  chaunce. 
Thus  the  good  earle  cooled  the  kinges  greevaunce. 
But  for  the   earle  might  happe  throughe  this 

exaccion, 
Possybly  have  proved  some  fond  commotion. 
So  heere  he  gate  not  his  love  v^^ith  cruelty, 
But  with  gentlenesse  and  liberalitie. 
For  all  controversies  he  found  provision, 
That  but  fewe  for  suytes  travayled  to  London ; 
In  such  matters,  God  wote,  greate  payne  tooke  he. 
Saved  the  countrey  travayle  and  much  money. 
And  eased  the  poore  that  had  litle  to  spend, 
And,  thanckes  be  to  God,  on  each  matter  made 

goode  ende. 
Nowe  for  there  most  travayle  poore  rich  and  all, 
And  for  the  most  parte  greate  fishe  devoures 
small ;  [go, 

Thus  walkes  the  world  forthward  and  apace  doth 
Stedfast  in  no  pointe,  it  shal  be  proved  so. 
Thinke  it  no  surer  but  weake  slipper  as  ise, 
And  who  trustes  other  in  it  sure  is  not  wise ; 
No  man  can  last  any  longer  then  the  time 
Which  God  hath  appoynted,  therefore  shake  of 
all  crime ; 


271 

We  most  after  this  earle  happen  not  all  thither, 
Where  his  sonnes  is  I  thinke  some  be  to  lyther. 
We  be  precisly  sure  each  one  for  to  dye, 
No  mankind  hath  charter  to  the  contrary. 
If  mighte  or  money  could  save  this  man, 
Or  love  of  his  neighbours,  he  had  not  died  than. 
But  seing  death  is  to  us  so  naturall. 
Pray  we  charitably  for  each  others  soule, 
And  specially  for  this  soule  now^e  let  us  praye, 
Of  this  honorable  earle  Thomas  Stanley, 
Who  in  honor  and  love  hath  ended  this  life. 
With  truth  ever  in  wedlocke  to  God  and  his  wyfe. 
The  love  which  he  wann  with  liberality, 
God  keepe  it  so  styll  with  the  same  propertye ! 


SIR  W.  STANLEY'S  GARLAND. 


This  garland,  so  highly  and  deservedly  popular  in  the  North 
of  England,  is  described  in  a  work  by  Thomas  Heywood,  Esq.,  on 
the  'Earls  of  Derby  and  the  Verse  Writers  and  Poets  of  the 
Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries,'  4to.  1825,  p.  29-  "The 
original  edition,"  observes  Mr.  Heywood,  "has  a  woodcut  of  its 
hero,  with  a  staff  under  his  arm,  a  gaily  cocked  hat  upon  his  head, 
and  one  arm  extended,  but  whether  to  point  to  a  ship  in  the 
distance,  or  for  the  purpose  of  giving  additional  emphasis  to  the 
song  he  is  evidently  singing,  is  doubtful."  The  superscription  to 
this  effigy  runs  thus  :  "  Sir  WiUiam  Stanley's  Garland,  containing 
his  twenty-one  years'  travels  through  most  parts  of  the  world,  and 
his  safe  return  to  Latham  Hall."  Mr.  Heywood  justly  adds,  that 
although  the  writer  commits  the  grossest  anachronisms,  yet  his 
stanzas  are  not  devoid  of  interest. 


TN  Lancashire  there  Hv'd  a  lord, 

A  worthy  lord  and  a  man  of  fame, 
Whose  dwelling  was  at  Lathum-hall, 

And  the  Earl  of  Derby  call'd  by  name. 
He  had  two  sons  of  noble  race, 

Who  gave  their  father  great  delight ; 
He  train'd  them  up  in  learning  good, 

Whereby  their  wisdom  to  requite. 


273 

The  elder  was  call'd  my  good  Lord  Strange, 

Lord  Ferdinando  was  his  name ; 
The  youngest  was  call'd  Sir  Wm.  Stanley, 

A  noble  valiant-minded  man ; 
But  as  it  happen'd  on  a  day. 

Sir  William  fell  upon  his  knee. 
Desiring  leave  of  his  father  dear. 

Some  foreign  countries  he  might  see. 
"  O,  grant  me  leave,  father,"  he  said, 

"  Some  foreign  countries  for  to  see, 
To  learn  the  speech  of  other  lands. 

Whereby  I  may  renowned  be." 
"  I'll  grant  thee  leave,  son  Will,"  he  said, 

"  For  three  years'  space  thou  shalt  be  free. 
And  gold  and  silver  thou'st  have  enough 

For  to  maintain  thee  gallantly ; 
But,  before  thou  go'st,  take  here  my  ring. 

Preserve  and  keep  it  safely; 
And  if  thou  lack'st  anything. 

Be  sure  thou  send  the  same  to  me." 
Then  Sir  William  took  leave  of  Latham-hall, 

And  of  all  that  in  lovely  Latham  lay ; 
And  then  he  prepar'd  himself  for  the  seas, 

To  travel  in  some  strange  country. 

35 


274 

As  soon  as  Sir  William  was  got  on  ship-board, 

He  to  himself  did  secretly  say, 
"  I'll  make  a  vow  to  the  living  Lord, 

That  three  seven  years  I'll  make  away; 
Before  to  England  I'll  return. 

Or  ever  on  EngUsh  ground  will  tread. 
Twenty-one  years  shall  be  pass'd  and  gone, 

According  to  the  vow  I've  made." 
Sir  WiUiam  travell'd  first  to  France, 

To  learn  the  French  tongue  and  to  dance  ; 
He  tarried  there  not  past  three  years. 

Till  he  leam'd  their  language  and  affairs. 
Then  Sir  William  travell'd  to  Spain, 

A  knowledge  of  their  tongue  to  gain. 
He  tarried  not  past  half  a  year, 

Till  he  thought  he  had  been  in  Spain  too  long ; 
To  Italy  Sir  William  then  would  go. 

To  Rome,  and  to  High  Germany, 
To  view  the  countries  all  around. 

And  see  what  pleasures  in  them  might  be. 
In  Rome  and  in  High  Germany 

He  stay'd  three  years  before  he  went. 
And  then  to  Egypt  he  took  his  way. 

To  view  that  court  was  his  intent. 


275 

And  one  year  and  half  Sir  William  stay'd, 

Then  took  his  leave  most  courteously 
Of  the  King  of  Morocco  and  his  nobles  all. 

Next  then  to  Barbary  court  he  went, 
Where  to  see  the  king  was  his  intent ; 

When  two  full  years  Sir  Wm.  had  been, 
Into  Russia  he  needs  must  go, 

To  visit  the  emperor  and  his  queen ; 
One  Doctor  Dee  he  met  with  there. 

Which  doctor  was  born  at  Manchester, 
Who  knew  Sir  William  Stanley  well, 

Tho'  he  had  not  seen  him  for  many  a  year. 
"  Pray  what's  the  cause,"  the  doctor  said, 

"  Brings  you,  Sir  William,  to  this  country  ?" 
'*  I'm  come  to  travel,"  Sir  William  replied ; 

"I  pray  thee,  doctor,  what  brought  thee  here?" 
"  I'm  come  to  do  a  cure,"  the  doctor  said, 

"Which  was  of  the  emperor's  feet  to  be  done, 
And  I  have  perform' d  it  effectually. 

Which  none  could  do  but  an  Englishman." 
Then  he  brought  him  before  the  emperor. 

Who  entertain'd  him  with  princely  cheer, 
And  gave  him  gold  and  silver  store. 

Desiring  his  company  for  seven  year  : 


276 

But  one  three  years  Sir  William  would  stay 

Within  the  emperor's  court  so  freely ; 
And  then  he  said  that  he  would  go 

To  Bethlehem  right  speedily, 
Likewise  to  fair  Jerusalem, 

Where  our  blessed  Saviour  Christ  did  die ; 
He  asked  them  if  it  was  so. 

They  answer'd  and  told  him  aye ; 
"  This  is  the  tree,"  the  Jews  then  said, 

''  Whereon  the  carpenter's  son  did  die  :" 
"  He  was  my  Saviour,"  Sir  William  said, 

'*  For  sure  he  died  for  the  sins  of  me !" 
But  one  half  year  Sir  William  would  stay. 

He  kiss'd  the  cross  with  weeping  eye, 
And  then  he  would  unto  Turkey  go. 

Where  he  endured  more  misery ; 
For  passing  through  Constantinople, 

Wherein  the  great  Turk  he  did  lie. 
Sir  William  then  was  taken  prisoner. 

And  for  his  religion  condemn'd  to  die. 
"  Before  I'll  forsake  my  living  Lord, 

My  blessed  Saviour  and  sweet  Lamb, 
Sweet  Jesus  Christ  that  died  for  me, 

I'll  die  the  worst  death  that  e'er  did  man ! 


277 

Farewell,  father,  and  farewell,  mother, 

And  farewell  all  friends  at  Latham-hall ! 
Little  do  they  know  that  I  am  a  prisoner, 

0  how  I'm  subject  unto  thrall !" 

A  lady  walking  under  the  prison  wall. 

Hearing  Sir  William  so  sore  lament, 
Unto  the  great  Turk  she  did  hie, 

To  beg  his  life  was  her  intent. 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,  thou  emperor. 

For  thou'rt  a  lord  of  great  command  ! 
Grant  me  the  life  of  an  Englishman ! 

Therefore  against  me  do  not  stand, 
For  I  will  make  him  a  husband  of  mine, 

Whereby  Mahomet  he  may  adore  ; 
He'll  carry  me  into  his  own  country. 

And  safely  thither  conduct  me  o'er." 
"  Take  thou  thy  boon,  thou  gay  lady, 

For  thou  art  one  of  a  tender  heart, 
But  let  him  yield  to  marry  thee. 

Or  else  be  hanged  e'er  he  depart." 
The  lady's  to  the  prison  gone 

Wherein  Sir  William  he  did  lie,  — 
"Be  of  good  cheer,  thou  Englishman, 

1  think  this  day  I've  set  thee  free ! 


278 

If  thou  wilt  yield  to  marry  me, 

And  take  me  for  to  be  thy  bride, 
To  take  me  into  thy  own  country. 

And  safely  thither  to  be  my  guide." 
"  I  cannot  marry,"  Sir  William  said, 

"  To  any  lady  in  this  country  ; 
For  if  ever  on  English  ground  I  tread, 

I  have  a  wife  and  children  three." 
This  excuse  serv'd  Sir  William  well ; 

The  lady  was  sorry  for  what  he  did  say. 
And  gave  him  five  hundred  pounds  in  gold 

To  carry  him  to  his  own  country. 
But  one  half  year  Sir  William  would  stay. 

After  from  prison  he  was  set  free. 
And  then  he  would  to  Greenland  go. 

Where  he  endur'd  more  misery. 
For  three  months  there  was  nothing  but  night, 

And  there  Sir  William  was  forc'd  to  want. 
Having  nothing  to  feed  upon  but  roots. 

And  they  to  him  grew  wond'rous  scant. 
His  shoes  were  frozen  to  his  feet. 

He  scarcely  knew  where  for  to  tread ; 
On  his  hands  and  knees  he  was  forc'd  to  creep. 

Expecting  each  hour  he  should  be  dead. 


279 

But  when  daylight  it  did  appear, 

Lord !  in  his  heart  he  was  full  fain, 
Then  he  saw  ships  coming  from  merry  England, 

To  fetch  whales  off  they  thither  came. 
One  Captain  Stanley,  owner  of  the  ship. 

When  he  saw  Sir  William  unto  him  come. 
He  had  known  him  in  his  own  country, 

A  man  of  noble  birth  and  fame. 
"  You're  well  to  travel,"  the  owner  said, 

But  scarce  one  word  Sir  William  did  say. 
Until  that  he  had  to  him  sworn 

(Nor  on  ship-board  would  he  come  that  day) 
That  he  would  never  name  at  Latham, 

Nor  to  any  friend  that  he  should  see. 
Nor  ever  his  name  in  question  call, 

When  he  came  into  his  own  country. 
For  three  years'  space  I  have  to  stay. 

According  to  the  vow  I've  made. 
And  those  three  years  shall  have  an  end. 

Or  on  English  ground  I'll  never  tread. 
Then  back  they  all  came  for  Holland, 

Being  joyful  of  each  other's  company ; 
The  captain  then  he  took  leave  of  him. 

And  bid  him  well  to  the  Low  Country. 


280 

With  one  John  Howell  he  did  meet  there, 

For  three  years'  space  to  be  his  man, 
To  get  his  living  behind  other  men's  backs, 

When  all  his  money  was  spent  and  gone. 
When  those  three  years  were  at  an  end, 

Lord,  in  his  heart  he  was  full  fain. 
Then  he  saw  ships  coming  from  merry  England, 

And  to  Latham-hall  he  return' d  again  : 
But  standing  bare  at  Latham  gate, 

Desiring  to  speak  with  the  old  earl. 
The  porter  thrust  him  back  again, 

Much  like  unto  a  dogged  churl : 
"  Go,  stand  thee  back,  thou  fellow  bare. 

Thou  canst  not  speak  with  my  lord  this  day." 
"  Now  ill  betide  thee,"  Sir  WiUiam  said, 

*'  I  was  as  well-born  and  bred  as  thee." 
But  he  got  lodgings  at  old  Holland's  house. 

Who  entertain'd  him  with  good  cheer ; 
And  when  they  were  at  supper  set. 

He  call'd  for  a  bottle  of  his  best  beer : 
"  Now,  by  your  leave,  goodman  Holland, 

I'll  drink  a  health  to  an  Englishman 
Whom  I  have  seen  in  countries  strange. 

And  William  Stanley  is  his  name." 


281 

"Do  you  know  my  young  lord?"  said  old  Holland; 

"  I  pray  you,  sir,  tell  unto  me." 
"  He  is  no  lord,"  Sir  William  said, 

*'  But  him  I've  seen  in  a  far  country." 
"  He  is  a  lord,"  said  old  Holland, 

"  He  is  a  lord  of  high  degree ; 
Because  his  elder  brother's  dead. 

And  Sir  William  in  a  far  country." 
Old  Holland  got  up  by  time  in  the  morn, 

Before  it  was  well  break  of  day. 
To  speak  with  the  Earl  of  Derby  then. 

As  he  rode  a  hunting  out  that  day : — 
"  Good  morrow,  my  lord,"  said  old  Holland, 

"  Last  night  at  my  house  a  guest  did  lie 
Who  came  out  of  countries  strange. 

And  tidings  brings  of  our  Sir  Wm.  Stanley." 
"  Bring  him  hither  to  me,"  said  the  old  earl, 

"  Let  me  see  the  guest  right  speedily : 
If  he  can  teU  me  any  tidings  of  my  son  WiU, 

Then  weU  rewarded  he  shall  be." 
But  when  he  came  his  father  before, 

Sir  WiUiam  fell  upon  his  knee. 
Craving  a  blessing  of  his  father  dear. 

And  pardon  for  all  his  discourtesy. 

36 


282 

"  If  thou  be  my  son  Will,"  said  the  old  earl, 

"  As  I  do  very  well  think  thou  may'st  be, 
I  gave  thee  a  ring  when  thou  didst  go ; 

Restore  the  same  again  to  me." 
He  gave  his  father  there  the  ring. 

Whereby  he  knew  him  perfectly. 
And  shew'd  him  a  lion  on  his  right  side, 

Saying,  "  Here  is  the  mark  the  Lord  sent  me !' 
The  king  then  hearing  he  was  come. 

Sent  for  him  straightway  up  to  court. 
And  entertain' d  him  royally 

With  gallant  cheer  and  princely  sport. 
The  Earl  of  Derby  made  a  feast. 

Which  lasted  at  Latham  months  three. 
And  nobly  entertain'd  the  guests 

That  came  to  see  his  son  William  Stanley. 


RULES  FOR  BELL-RINGERS. 


These  Rules  are  painted  on  the  wall  of  the  belfry  in  St.  John's 
Church,  Chester.  The  church  is  situated  on  the  outside  of  the 
city  walls,  but  is  the  most  ancient  religious  foundation  there ;  an 
old  legend  relating  that  King  Ethelred,  who  had  intended  such  a 
work,  dreamed  that  he  saw  St.  John  the  Baptist,  who  told  him 
to  commence  on  that  spot  of  ground  where  he  should  first  see  a 
white  hind ;  and  that,  in  consequence,  here  the  king  ierected  his 
church.  In  987,  Ethelred  Earl  of  Mercia  founded  a  collegiate 
church  here,  which  was  repaired,  in  1057,  by  Earl  Leofric.  The 
following  rhymes  are  painted  in  distemper,  in  old  English  letters, 
within  an  ornamental  border,  bearing  date  A.  D.  1687.  Aubrey 
relates  that  it  was  usual  in  his  time  for  gentlemen  to  occasionally 
amuse  themselves  with  an  hour's  exercise  at  bell-ringing.  This 
fondness  for  bell-ringing,  and  the  constant  way  in  which  they  were 
heard  at  all  times,  gave  England  the  name  of  "the  ringing  Island." 
(Kindly  communicated  by  F.  W.  Fairholt,  Esq.) 


You  ringers  all  observe  these  orders  well, 
he  forfits  12  pence  that  turnes  ore  a  bell ; 
&  he  y*  ringes  with  either  spurr  or  hatt, 
his  6  pence  certainely  shall  pay  for  y* ; 
&  he  y  spoile  or  doth  disturbe  a  peale, 
shall  pay  his  4  pence  or  a  cann  of  ale, 
And  he  that  is  hard  to  curse  or  sweare, 
shall  pay  his  12  pence  &  forbeare ; 


.  284 

These  customes  elsewhere  now  are  used, 

lest  bells  &  ringers  be  abused ; 

You  gallants  then  y*  on  purpose  come  to  ring, 

see  y*  you  coyne  along  with  you  doath  bring ; 

and  further  also  if  y*  you  ring  here, 

You  must  ring  truly  with  hand  &  eare. 

Or  else  your  forfits  surely  pay 

full  speedily,  &  that  without  delay. 

Our  lawes  is  ould,  y^  are  not  new, 

The  sextone  looketh  for  his  due. 


DE  CESTRISCIRIA. 

From  MSS.  Addit.  6032  in  the  British  Museum. 

O  Devania,  virtutis  nutrix, 
Pollens  nobilibus,  princeps  virorum, 
Q,ui  pulchri  corpore,  spiritu  feroces, 
Septi  robore  prodigique  vitse, 
Hostes  aggrediuntur  et  lacessunt  ? 


London  :  Printed  by  C.  and  J.  Adlard,  Bartholomew  Close. 


CJt 


patattne  <$atlaniy. 


alattne  Variant): 


g[  ^eUctinn  of  Ballatis  anU  JFragments, 


^ujpplementarp  to 


I    Ct)f  palatine  ant^oloflg. 


1 


i.onJ)on:  MM*<£^€€.1L, 


vSjM&^m^l 


€^r  palatine  6arlanir. 


THE   CHESTER   GAULAOT). 


From  an  old  copy,  in  four  parts,  printed  at  Tewkesbury.  This 
ballad  is  of  great  curiosity,  being  founded  on  the  same  tale  as 
Cymbeline,  and  from  the  close  similarity  of  its  story  to  the  tale  as 
related  in  'Westward  for  Smelts,'  1620,  it  wovild  appear  that  it 
was  formed  from  the  popular  traditional  version  of  the  romance, 
not  on  the  play. 


A    MERCHANT  of  London,  as  many  report,  * 
He  for  a  long  time  a  young  lady  did  court ; 
At  length  by  long  courtship  this  handsome  lady 
Did  promise  this  merchant  his  bride  to  be. 


2-J 


Of  one  thing  this  lady  she  was  ignorant. 
To  go  his  own  factor  the  merchant  was  bent ; 
The  ship  was  freighted,  all  things  ready  were 
In  order  to  sail,  but  the  wind  was  not  fair. 


So  he,  to  make  sure  of  this  lady  bright. 
Was  married  one  morning  before  it  was  light ; 
And  married  they  were,  but  the  same  day 
Tidings  came  to  him  the  ship  must  away. 

He  said,  My  dear  jewel,  the  thing  it  is  so. 
That  I,  my  own  factor,  to  Turkey  must  go ; 
It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall  return 
To  you  home  in  safety,  so,  dear,  do  not  mourn. 

So  then  he  embrac'd,  and  away  did  hie ; 
To  be  left  alone  the  lady  did  cry ; 
As  he  is  gone  from  me,  I'll  do  what  I  can 
To  keep  myself  free  from  the  scandal  of  man. 

Then  this  noble  lady,  with  troubled  mind. 
She  unto  her  chamber  herself  close  confin'd ; 
Wherein  we  must  leave  her  to  sigh  and  complain. 
And  turn  to  the  merchant  who's  gone  o'er  the  main. 

He  sail'd  into  Russia,  where,  as  we  find. 

His  ship  was  laden  with  traffic  so  fine ; 

Then  to  come  to  London  his  course  he  did  steer, 

And  what  happen'd  to  him  you  quickly  shall  hear. 

Upon  the  wide  ocean  a  storm  did  arise. 
In  which  gloomy  clouds  did  darken  the  skies ; 
The  wind  did  blow,  and  the  storms  did  roar. 
Which  drove  them  almost  to  the  Irish  shore. 


For  several  hours  by  the  waves  they  were  tost, 
Expecting  each  moment  their  lives  would  be  lost ; 
In  the  midst  of  their  danger  one  did  contrive 
To  alter  their  course,  and  at  Chester  arrive. 

The  thing  was  soon  noised  abroad  in  the  town, 
And  many  shopkeepers  to  this  ship  came  down ; 
One  bought  the  whole  cargo  ;  the  money,  'tis  said, 
To  this  London  merchant  in  a  few  days  was  paid. 

One  day,  at  a  tavern,  these  dealers,  we  find, 
Stay'd  several  hours  with  drinking  of  wine  ; 
At  length  the  shopkeeper  said,  Shall  we  go 
And  get  us  a  miss? —The  merchant  said,  No. 

Sir,  with  such  a  lady  I  fairly  did  wed. 
She's  chaste  as  when  we  were  married, 
A  woman  as  honest  as  ever  you  knew. 
Then  to  such  a  wife  I  will  be  chaste  and  true. 

The  shopkeeper  said.  Your  conceit  is  strong. 
To  think  any  woman  can  tarry  so  long 
To  wait  for  a  husband.     I'll  lay  what  you  dare. 
That  I  can  defile  your  chaste  lady  fair. 

To  which  the  merchant  said.  Sure,  I  am  free 
To  lay  ship  and  money  on  her  chastity ; 
Then  before  witness  the  thing  was  agreed, 
And  the  shopkeeper  came  up  to  London  with  speed. 


He  went  to  a  tavern,  and  there  did  presume 
To  call  for  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a  room ; 
'Twas  a  widow  woman,  who  lived  then  there. 
For  the  sake  of  some  money  the  wife  did  ensnare. 

He  asked  if  she  knew  such  a  one  ]  the  reply 
Was,  Yes,  sir,  and  she  liveth  hard  by. 
He  said,  Fifty  guineas  I'll  give  you  straitway. 
If  into  her  chamber  you  will  me  convey. 

Her  answer  was  to  him,  As  I  am  alive, 
A  way  to  get  you  there  I  will  soon  contrive. 
She  went  to  this  lady,  and  said.  It  is  so. 
To  my  dying  father  this  night  I  must  go. 

My  jewels  and  plate  and  other  things  brave, 
Lie  lock'd  in  a  chest  which  by  me  I  have ; 
This  night  in  your  chamber,  pray,  let  them  lie  here. 
To-morrow  I'll  fetch  them,  you  need  not  fear. 

This  lady,  not  knowing  her  wicked  design. 
Gave  leave  to  bring  them  at  night  we  find. 
This  vile,  subtle  woman,  to  compleat  the  jest, 
Had  him  convey'd  there  lock'd  in  the  chest. 


This  lady  she  used  to  keep  a  great  light, 
To  burn  in  her  chamber  always  in  the  night ; 
And  as  this  lady  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 
The  shopkeeper  out  of  the  chest  did  creep. 

When  he  came  to  the  bed,  like  one  in  amaze, 
He  on  this  lady  did  stand  and  gaze, 
And  on  her  right  breast  he  espied  a  mole, 
Which  for  some  time  he  did  stand  to  behold. 

Likewise  on  the  table  he  chanced  to  spy 
A  girdle  and  watch,  that  on  it  did  lie ; 
On  the  girdle  and  watch  her  name  was  plac'd. 
Which  things  in  his  pocket  he  put  up  in  haste. 

Saying,  These  tokens  my  wager  will  gain. 
And  now  to  disturb  her  I  will  refrain. 
Then  into  the  chest  he  went,  and  there  lay 
Until  the  next  morning  he  was  fetched  away. 

So  then  for  West- Chester  he  did  repair. 
And  with  a  good  horse  he- soon  came  there. 
Crying  to  the  merchant.  The  wager  I've  won, 
And,  if  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  undone. 

Upon  her  right  breast  there  is  a  mole  grows, 
Which  you,  in  long  courting,  have  seen,  I  suppose; 
Sir,  there  is  a  girdle  and  watch  likewise, 
Therefore  you  may  see  I  tell  you  no  lies. 


6 

To  see  this  the  merchant  wept  bitterly, 
And  said,  Wicked  woman,  thou  has  ruined  me ! 
For  to  be  undone  this  makes  my  heart  ake ; 
Now  for  a  subsistence  what  course  can  I  take '? 

To  hear  this  moan,  some  merchants  being  there. 
Said  to  him.  Brother,  do  not  yet  despair; 
Since  you  are  ruin'd  by  a  vile  woman, 
We'll  make  a  man  of  you  once  more  if  we  can. 

So  among  them  they  raised  two  hundred  pound, 
And  set  him  up  shopkeeper  in  Chester  town ; 
But  Satan  was  busy,  and  to  stir  up  strife, 
He  tempted  the  merchant  to  murder  his  wife. 


part  Uh 

He  then  kept  a  servant,  whose  name  it  was  John, 
He  then  sent  a  letter  to.  her  by  this  man ; 
These  words  were  in  it :  At  Chester  1  be. 
With  all  expedition,  dear  wife,  come  to  me. 

Perusing  the  letter,  she  said,  with  a  smile. 
My  dear,  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  short  while ; 
Next  day  with  this  young  man  away  she  went, 
Of  these  ill  designs  she  was  innocent. 


Riding  through  a  wood  to  make  her  his  prey, 
He  with  a  penknife  did  turn  and  say : 
Come,  lady,  alight  from  your  horse  directly. 
For  it  is  order'd  here  you  must  die. 

To  hear  these  expressions,  she  cry'd  out  amain, 
Young  man,  wherefore  is  it  I  must  be  slain  ? 

His  answer  was,  For 

The  man  that  defiled  you  I  knew  before. 

She  said.  If  I  must  die,  I'll  take  it  on  my  death. 
No  man  ever  knew  me  since  I  drew  breath. 
He  said.  These  excuses  will  never  do, 
My  master  sent  me  to  murder  you. 

He  charged  me  to  bring  your  clothes  and  heart ; 
Then  I'll  not  prove  false  to  him,  for  my  part. 
Thus,  as  she  stood  trembling,  and  for  life  did  cry, 
By  Providence,  a  hog  by  chance  to  come  by. 

She  said.  Save  my  life,  and  kill  that  swine. 
And  take  the  heart,  he'll  think  it  is  mine. 
Likewise  take  these  my  cloaths  also. 
And  give  me  yours ;  then  a  wandering  I'll  go. 

For  to  save  her  life,  then,  he  thought  good. 
And  the  thing  desired  was  done  in  the  wood. 
He  went  home  and  said.  Sir,  to  finish  the  strife, 
Here  are  the  cloaths  and  heart  of  your  wife ! 


8 

To  see  this  the  merchant  did  blush, 
And  into  the  fire  the  heart  did  push ; 
Crying,  There  is  the  heart  of  a  strumpet  again, 
Who  has  been  my  ruin  and  fed  me  with  pain ! 

Thus  he,  in  vile  manner,  did  burn  this  heart, 
By  which  we  may  see  revenge  is  sweet ; 
But  now  I  will  leave  him,  mistaken,  and  hear 
What  course  of  life  this  lady  did  steer. 


Dress'd  in  man's  apparel  she  wander'd  away. 
But  as  she  was  going  through  a  town  one  day. 
She  went  to  a  gentleman's  door,  it  is  said. 
And  heartily  begged  for  a  morsel  of  bread. 

This  man  came  forth,  and  look'd  in  her  face. 
And  said,  Young  man,  it  is  a  disgrace 
For  to  go  a-begging.     Art  willing,  said  he. 
To  serve  such  a  master  as  now  I  may  be  1 

Her  answer  was.  Yes,  and  thank  you  beside ; 
Come  in  and  sit  down,  the  master  reply'd. 
And  soon  I  will  put  better  cloaths  on  thy  back  ; 
Be  but  a  good  servant,  thou  nothing  shalt  lack. 


This  man  so  lov'd  her,  that  in  a  short  space. 
He  got  her  a  commission  for  a  captain's  place ; 
Then  she  with  great  courage  to  Flanders  went  o'er, 
And  was  in  battle  where  cannons  did  roar.  " 

Summer  being  ended,  both  she  and  her  men, 
All  that  were  alive,  came  to  England  again  ; 
For  winter's  quarters  it  was  ordered  so, 
That  she  and  her  men  to  West-Chester  should  go. 

Where,  walking  the  streets  one  night,  this  lady 
Look'd  into  a  shop,  and  her  husband  did  see ; 
For  to  think  of  his  actions  that  were  so  base. 
Her  heart  was  disturb'd  and  mov'd  from  its  place. 

Dress'd  as  a  commander,  she  to  him  did  go. 
And  said  unto  him.  Sir,  do  you  know 
Such  a  man  in  this  town  ?  tell  me  if  you  can ; 
His  answer  was.  Sir,  I  am  the  man ! 

Sir,  did  you  not  marry  with  such  a  lady, 
A  noble  knight's  daughter  ?  pray,  where  is  she  1 
Yes,  I  marry'd  her,  the  merchant  reply'd  ; 
About  three  years  ago  she  sicken'd  and  dy'd. 

Then  unto  a  justice  of  peace  she  retir'd, 
And  told  the  whole  matter,  which  thing  he  admir'd; 
He  sent  for  her  husband  and  young  man  in  haste. 
With  the  villain  that  was  shut  in  the  chest. 

2 


10 

But  first  he  examined  the  lady's  husband, 
But  he  with  blushes  appear'd  very  wan, 
And  thinking  his  lady  she  had  been  dead, 
With  fear  his  teeth  gnashed  in  his  head. 

The  justice  said.  Young  man,  for  thee, 
Did'st  thou  kill  this  man's  wife  ?  tell  unto  me. 
He  said.  Sir,  I  was  sent  the  lady  to  kill ; 
Unto  her,  through  mercy,  I  shewed  no  ill. 

My  master  charged  me  to  bring  her  heart. 
But  he  was  mistaken  that  time  for  his  part ; 
For  'twas  a  hog's  heart  I  brought  him  to  show. 
And  I  hope  she  is  living,  but  where  I  don't  know. 

Dress'd  in  man's  apparel,  she  said  to  him,  John, 
I  am  the  young  lady,  though  drest  like  a  man ; 
To  hear  this  the  merchant  began  to  sweat,^ 
And  look'd  like  a  woodcock  caught  in  a  net. 

And  then  the  shopkeeper  was  call'd  in  place. 
Who  on  this  lady  had  brought  sorrow  apace ; 
He  being  examined,  was  found  guilty, 
And  order'd  to  stand  in  the  pillory. 

Nay,  this  was  not  all,  he  was  order'd  to  pay 
Fifty  thousand  pounds  to  the  merchant  next  day  ; 
Which  sum  was  produc'd  with  great  discontent, 
And  strait  to  a  prison  he  quickly  was  sent. 


11 

Saying,  I'm  ruin'd  by  playing  the  cheat, 
And  shall  be  expos'd  to  shame  in  the  street ; 
To  prevent  all  scandal,  he  took  a  penknife. 
And  stabb'd  himself,  which  ended  his  life. 

And  now  the  merchant  and  lady  do  dwell 
Together  in  love,  and  agree  very  well ; 
And  as  for  the  young  man  who  pity'd  her  moan, 
This  lady  loves  him  as  a  child  of  her  own. 


THE    LANCASHIRE   WITCHES.    • 

The  Famous  History  of  the  Lancashire  Witches,  con- 
taining the  Manner  of  their  becoming  such;  their 
Enchantments,  Spells,  Revels,  merry  Pranks,  raising 
of  Storms  and  Tempests,  riding  on  Winds,  ^c. 
The  Entertainments  and  Frolics  which  have  happened 
among  them.  With  the  Loves  and  Humours  of 
Roger  and  Dorothy.  Also,  A  Treatise  of  Witches 
in  general,  conducive  to  Mirth  and  Recreation.  The 
like  before  never  published.     12mo,  n.  d. 

Ch.  \.—  The  Lancashire  Witches  Temtation,  and  of  the 
Devil's  appearing  to  her  in  sundry  shapes^  and  giving 
her  money. 

T  ANCASHIRE  is  a  famous  and  noted  place,  abounding 
with  rivers,  hills,  woods,  pastures,  and  pleasant  towns, 
many  of  which  are  of  great  antiquity.  It  has  also  been 
famous  for  witches,  and  the  strange  pranks  they  played. 
Therefore,  since  the  name  of  Lancashire  witches  have  been 
so  frequent  in  the  mouths  of  old  and  young,  and  many  im- 
perfect stories  have  been  rumoured  abroad,  it  would 
doubtless  tend  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  reader  to  gvie  some 
account  of  them  in  their  merry  sports  and  pastimes. 


13 

Some  time  since  lived  one  Mother  Cuthbert,  in  a  little 
hovel  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill  called  Wood-and-Mountain 
Hill,  in  Lancashire.  This  woman  had  two  lusty  daughters, 
who  both  carded  and  spun  for  their  living,  yet  was  very 
poor,  which  made  them  often  repine  at  and  lament  their 
want.  One  day,  as  Mother  Cuthbert  was  sauntring  about 
the  hill  side,  picking  the  wood  off  the  bushes,  out  started 
a  thing  like  a  rabbit,  which  run  about  two  or  three  times, 
and  then  changed  into  a  hound,  and  afterwards  into  a  man, 
which  made  the  old  beldame  to  tremble,  yet  she  had  no 
power  to  run  away.  So  putting  a  purse  of  money  in  her 
hand,  and  charging  her  to  be  there  the  next  day,  he  im- 
mediately vanished  away;  and  old  Mother  Cuthbert  returned 
home,  being  somewhat  disturbed  between  jealousy  and 
fear. 


Ch.  2.  — Strange  and  wonderful  apparitions;  how  one 
witch  had  power  to  make  another;  and  other  strange 
things. 

The  old  woman  opened  not  her  purse  till  she  came  home, 
and  then  found  in  it  ten  angels ;  so  calling  to  her  daugh- 
ters, she  told  them  what  had  happened.  The  wenches 
rejoiced  the  treasure  of  the  house  increased,  that  they 
might  stuif  themselves  with  beef  and  pudding,  which  they 
had  long  been  strangers  to ;  and  advised  her  mother  to  go 
again  as  she  was  ordered,  and  so  she  did.  The  first  thing 
she  saw  was  a  tree,  rising  out  of  the  ground,  which  moved 


14 

toward  her,  and,  to  her  great  surprise,  multiplyed  into  a 
very  thick  wood  round  her,  so  that  she  was  afraid  of  losing 
herself;  when  on  a  sudden  she  saw  a  house,  and  heard 
the  sound  of  musick.  This  appeared  more  strange;  how- 
ever she  took  courage,  and  went  towards  it,  where  she 
found  a  matron  standing  at  the  door,  who  very  kindly  in- 
vited her  in,  where  she  found  a  great  many  women  all 
dancing  and  revelling ;  and  the  house  appeared  like  a 
stately  palace,  and  tables  furnished  with  variety  of  deli- 
cacies. The  dance  being  ended,  she  was  desired  to  sit 
at  the  table  with  the  rest ;  but  she  scrupled  it  at  first ; 
till  at  length,  being  hungry,  she  fell  roundly  to.  After 
dinner,  the  matron  which  received  her,  by  striking  the 
floor  with  her  wand,  caused  divers  of  the  familiars,  in  the 
shape  of  cats,  bears,  apes,  &c,,  to  enter  and  dance  antic 
dances,  whilst  she  played  on  the  gridiron  and  tongs.  This 
done,  taking  Mother  Cuthbert  aside,  she  demanded  how 
she  liked  their  cheer  and  sport  1  She  answered.  Very  well; 
but  desired  to  know  where  she  was,  and  her  company? 
Mother  Crady  then  told  her  that  she  was  Witch  of  Penmure, 
a  great  mountain  in  Wales,  and  the  rest  were  her  country- 
women of  the  same  faculty;  and  being  desirous  to  have 
her  of  the  fraternity,  she  had  contrived  this  way  to  enter- 
tain her,  to  shew  that  she  might  always  live  jocund  and 
merry.  Mother  Cuthbert,  overcome  with  persuasions,  con- 
sented, when  immediately  they  anointed  her  breast  with 
a  certain  ointment,  then  speaking  a  charm  or  two,  they 
gave  her  the  rest  to  use  upon  occasion ;  and  also  in  another 
box  a  little  thing  like  a  mole,  that  was  to  be  her  imp.     So 


16 


all  mounting  upon  a  coal-staff,  away  they  flew,  and  she 
with  them  ;  but  they  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  own  house, 
and  kept  still  on  their  way  with  the  wind. 


Ch.  S.—A  Lancashire  Witch  enchants  the  mayor  of  the 
town  who  had  caused  her  to  be  whipped;  with  the 
circumstances  attending. 

Mother  Cuthbert,  being  thus  entered  into  the  society  of 
witches,  by  the  force  of  her  ointment,  and  council  of  her 
imp,  who  could  speak  when  he  pleased,  and  turn  himself 
into  divers  shapes,  finding  the  power  she  had,  began  to 
play  many  pranks. 

Some  time  before  this  the  mayor  of  Lancaster  had  caused 
Mother  Cuthbert  to  be  whipt  for  breaking  his  pales  to  make 
her  a  fire  in  the  cold  winter,  which  she  resented  much ;  and 
now  knowing  her  power  to  revenge  it,  she  trudges  thither, 
where  she  found  him  carousing  with  many  friends.  She 
took  an  opportunity  to  slip  a  letter  into  his  hands,  and 
retired  unknown,  which  he  had  no  sooner  perused,  but 
telling  his  company  he  must  run  a  race,  he  immediately 
went  into  the  next  room,  and  stripped  himself  stark-naked, 
then  taking  a  hand-whip,  he  ran  into  the  street,  lashing 
his  sides  and  back,  crying.  There  he  goes  !  I  win  !  I  win ! 
whilst  the  people  followed,  calling  him  to  stay,  thinking 
he  was  distracted ;  yet  he  run  on  to  the  further  end  of  the 
town,  lashing  himself  till  he  was  bloody.  At  which  time, 
coming  to  his  wits,  he  was  in  the  greatest  consternation. 


16 

swearing  the  devil  had  put  this  trick  upon  him ;  for  all  the 
time  he  imagined  he  had  been  on  horseback,  and  was  riding 
a  race,  not  feeling  the  lashes  he  gave  himself  till  he  had 
compleated  his  number,  and  filled  the  measure  of  the  witch's 
resentment. 


Ch.  4.  —  The  old  womarCs  two  daughters  become  wMches ; 
and  one  of  them^  in  the  shape  of  a  mare,  is  revenged 
upon  her  false  sweetheart  and  rival. 

Mother  Cuthbert,  growing  more  and  more  perfect  in  her 
art,  resolved  to  bring  in  her  daughters  for  a  snack,  and 
thereupon  communicates  to  them  all  that  had  befallen  her. 
They  were  content  to  be  ruled  by  the  mother,  and  she 
anointed  them,  and  used  the  best  means  she  was  able  to 
make  them  perfect  in  their  new  trade. 

Their  names  was  Margery  and  Cicely ;  the  first  was 
courted  by  Roger  Clodpate,  a  plain,  downright,  country 
fellow ;  but  he  was  wheedled  from  her  by  Dorothy,  a  gen- 
tleman's dairymaid  not  far  distant.  This  vexed  Margery, 
and  made  her  resolved  to  be  revenged  for  it ;  so  one  day, 
as  they  went  abroad  in  the  fields  about  courtship,  she,  by 
casting  up  dust  in  the  air,  and  other  enchantments,  raised 
up  a  mighty  storm  of  rain,  which  so  sweTled  the  ditches 
that  they  overflowed  in  their  way  and  stopped  them ;  but 
as  they  began  to  think  of  going  back,  Margery  immediately 
transformed  herself  into  the  shape  of  a  black  mare,  and 
came  gently  towards  them,  when  Roger,  glad  of  the  oppor- 


17 

tunity,  first  mounted  his  sweethert,  and  then  got  up  himself. 
But  they  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  the  water  than 
she  threw  him  heels  over  head,  and  ran  away  laughing,  soon 
recovering  her  shape ;  while  Roger  and  Doll  were  in  a 
piteous  case,  and  forced  to  trudge  home,  like  drowned  rats, 
with  the  story  of  their  unfortunate  disaster. 


Ch.  5.— a  witch  rescues  a  man  who  was  going  to  gaol, 
and  plagues  the  bailies,  by  leading  them  a  dance 
over  hedge  and  ditch. 

A  poor  man  being  arrested  by  a  cruel  creditor  for  debt, 
and  he  not  being  able  to  pay  it,  they  were  carrying  him 
to  Lancaster  gaol,  when  Mother  Cuthbert  met  them,  and 
desired  to  know  the  matter.  The  officers  answered  her  very 
surlily,  pushing  her  aside,  which,  raising  her  choler,  she 
said.  But  you  shall  let  him  go  before  we  do  part.  And 
they  said  he  should  not.  Whereupon  she  bid  the  poor  man 
stop  his  ears  close :  and  then  she  drew  out  a  pipe  which 
had  been  given  her  by  the  witch  of  Penmure,  and  then  set 
piping,  and  led  them  through  hedges  and  thorns,  over  ditches, 
banks,  and  poles,  sometimes  tumbling,  and  other  times  tear- 
ing and  bruising  their  flesh  ;  while  the  poor  fellow  got  time 
enough  to  make  his  escape,  and  the  catch-poles  cried  out 
for  mercy,  thinking  the  devil  had  led  them  a  dance.  At 
length  she  left  them  in  the  middle  of  a  stinking  pond  to 
shift  for  themselves. 

3 


l^ 


Ch.  6.-0/  a  Lancashire  witch  being  in  love  with  a 
gentleman :  of  her  haunting  him  in  the  shape  of  a 
hare,  and  obtaining  her  ends. 

Cicely,  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Lancashire  witch, 
being  in  love  with  a  gentleman's  son  about  a  mile  from  their 
home,  was  resolved  to  have  him  in  her  arms  at  any  rate ; 
wherefore,  knowing  he  admired  hunting;  she  often  turned 
herself  into  a  hare  to  make  hira  sport,  and  still  drew  him 
towards  her  mother's  house,  for  when  he  went  that  way 
he  was  used  to  call  to  chat  with  them,  the  which  caused  in 
Cicely  the  first  passion;    but  once  this  had  like  to  have 
proved  fatal,  for  the  charm  wanting  somewhat  of  its  force, 
one  of  the  foremost  hounds  catched  her  by  the  haunches 
just  as  she  was  entering  her  creep-hole,  and  gave  her  a 
terrible  pinch ;  and  happy  was  it  for  her  that  she  was  so 
near,  or  her  loving  had  been  for  ever  spoiled.     The  young 
man,  commonly  losing  the  hare  about  this  house,  began  to 
wonder,  and  supposing  it  to  have  run  in  at  the  sink,  he 
entered  the  house,  where  he  found  Cicely  rubbing  of  her 
back ;  but  not  meeting  what  he  sought,  nor   looking   for 
such  a  transformation,  he  departed,  and  she  for  the  future 
grew  cautious  of  shewing  him  any  more  sport  of  that  kind. 
But  when  he  was  going  to  be  married  to  a  beautifu  lyoung 
gentlewoman,  she  by  enchantment  caused  the  lady  to  lose 
herself  in  a  wood,  and  there  cast  her  into  a  deep  sleep  for 
a  day  and  a  night.     In  the  mean  time  she  personated  the 


19 

bride;  but  knowing  it  could  not  long  continue,  she  cast 
him  likewise  into  a  deep  sleep,  and  then  fetched  the  young 
lady  to  his  arms,  that  when  they  both  awaked  they  thought 
they  had  been  all  the  time  together. 


Ch.  1.— Mother  Cuthhert  enchants  several  thieves,  and 
takes  away  their  money ;  with  the  manner  of  setting 
spells. 

Old  Mother  Cuthbert,  going  along  the  road,  she  over- 
heard some  thieves  bragging  of  a  mighty  purchase  they  had 
made,  whereupon  she  resolved  with  herself  that  she  would 
come  in  for  a  share ;  and  accordingly  she  muttered  some 
words,  on  which  the  horses  began  for  to  stumble,  which 
made  them  curse  and  swear.  At  length  they  supposed 
they  heard  the  rattling  of  clubs  and  staves,  as  if  the  whole 
country  had  been  up  in  arms  to  seize  them ;  and  finding 
they  could  not  spur  their  horses  on,  nor  make  them  stir  a 
foot,  they  got  off,  leaving  their  portmantuas  behind  them, 
and  ran  away  on  foot.  The  prize  she  conveyed  home  and 
hearing  some  poor  people  had  been  robbed,  she  gave  them 
back  what  they  had  lost.  The  fright  the  rogues  were  put 
into  was  caused  by  enchantment,  in  which  she  was  so  good 
a  proficient,  that  she  often  would  set  spells  on  the  highway, 
so  that  any  being  robbed  the  rogues  had  no  power  to  get 
away. 


20 

The  description  of  a  spell.— A  spell  is  a  piece  of  paper 
written  with  magic  characters,  fixed  in  a  critical  season  of 
the  moon  and  conjunction  of  the  planets ;  or,  sometimes, 
by  repeating  mystical  words.  But  of  these  there  are  many 
sorts. 


Ch.  8.  —  The  manner  of  a  witch  feast;  or,  a  general  meeting. 

There  being  a  general  meeting  of  the  witches  to  con- 
sult for  merry  pranks,  and  to  be  even  with  any  who  had 
injured  them,  one  of  them  must  needs  bring  her  husband 
with  her ;    but  charged   him  and  made  him  promise  that 
whatever  he  saw  or  heard  he  should  not  speak  a  word  of  it. 
To  this  he  promised  to  be  obedient.     He  was  carried  thither 
in  the  night,  but  he  knew  not  which  way ;  and  there  he 
found  a  stately  palace  (to   his   thinking),    furnished   with 
goods  of  exceeding  value,  and  it  shined  in  the  night  with 
artificial  lights  as  at  noon-day.     Here  they  had  all  manner 
of  good  cheer,  and  he  was  as  frolicksome  as  the  merriest. 
The  man  observed  his  covenant  till  he  came  to  eat,  when 
looking  about  and  seeing  no  salt  (for  it  seems  witches  never 
use  any),  he,  before  he  was  aware,  cried  out.  What,  in  God's 
name,  have  we  no  salt  here  ?     Upon  this  all  the  lights  im- 
mediately went  out,  and  the  company  flew  away;  so  dreadful 
is  the  name  of  God  to  those  servants  of  Satan.     Storms  of 
rain  and  hail,  attended  with  lightening  and  terrible  claps  of 
thunder,  ensued.     The  rain  poured  on  him,  the  wind  blew. 


21 

and  instead  of  a  palace,  when  daylight  appeared,  he  found 
himself  in  an  old  uncovered  barn,  on  a  steep  hill,  about 
twenty  miles  from  home.  And  from  that  time  he  never 
desired  to  go  with  his  wife  to  see  curiosities. 


Ch.  9,  —  The  humours  of  Roger  and  Doll,  with  the  manner 
how  they  was  served  by  a  Lancashire  witch. 

Roger  and  Dorothy  being  got  in  a  merry  humour,  one 
day  meeting  with  Margery,  began  to  swear  at  her,  and 
called  her  Leaden  Heels,  but  she  passed  by  as  if  she 
minded  it  not.  They  had  not  far  to  go  before  there  was  a 
stile  to  go  over ;  but  when  they  was  on  the  top  they  could 
not  get  down  on  either  side,  fancying  there  was  ponds  of 
water  round  about  them,  till  some  travellers  came  by,  who, 
finding  them  thus  mounted  on  the  wooden  horse  in  a  strange 
posture,  made  them  dismount.  However,  not  satisfied,  she 
watched  their  motions,  and  found  them  in  a  barn  that  stood 
by  the  road,  where  the  cows  used  to  be  driven  in  to  be  milked. 
There,  being  seated  upon  the  straw,  toying  together,  and 
wondering  at  what  had  happened,  they  proceeded  to  be  a 
little  more  familiar  together.  But  just  as  they  were  going 
to  offer,  Margery,  who  stood  there  invisible,  sprinkled  Roger 
with  a  certain  dust,  which  changed  his  very  countenance, 
making  it  appear  to  his  mistress  like  an  ass's  head ;  which 
so  frighted  her  that  she  gave  a  lusty  spring,  and  throwing 
him  quite  over,  she  got  up,  running,  and  crying  out,  The 


22 

devil !  the  devil !  This  so  terrified  Roger,  that  he  followed, 
crying  out.  What  ails  you,  my  dear?  what  ails  youl  In 
this  manner,  to  the  laughter  of  a  great  number  of  people, 
they  ran  until  they  were  so  tired  they  were  forced  to  lie 
down,  being  no  longer  able  to  hold  out.  Thus,  at  this  time, 
her  revenge  was  satisfied. 


Ch.  10.  — How  some  witches,  revelling  in  a  gentleman's 
house,  served  the  servants  who  surprised  them. 

It  happened  one  time  that  a  great  number  of  Lancashire 
witches  were  revelling  in  a  gentleman's  house  in  his  absence, 
and  making  merry  with  what  they  found,  the  dogs  not 
daring  to  stir,  they  having,  it  seems,  power  to  strike  them 
mute.  However,  during  their  frolick,  some  of  the  servants 
came  home,  and  thinking  they  had  been  ordinary  thieves, 
went  to  seize  them  ;  but  they  happened  to  catch  a  Tartar ; 
for  each  taking  one,  they  flew  away  with  them,  who  in  vain 
called  for  help,  till  they  had  lodged  them  on  the  top  of  very 
high  trees ;  and  then  raised  prodigious  storms  of  thunder 
and  lightening,  with  hard  showers  of  rain,  they  left  them 
there  to  do  penance  for  their  intrusion. 


23 


Ch.  II.  — A'  brief  treatise  on  witches  in  general;  with 
several  things  worthy  of  note. 

About  this  time  great  search  was  made  after  witches,  and 
many  were  apprehended;  but  most  of  them  gave  the  hang- 
man and  the  gaoler  the  slip;  though  some  hold  that  when  a 
witch  is  taken  she  hath  no  power  to  avoid  justice.  It  hap- 
pened, as  some  of  them  were  going  in  a  cart  to  be  tried,  a 
coach  passed  by,  in  which  appeared  a  person  like  a  judge, 
who,  calling  to  one,  bid  her  be  of  good  comfort,  for  neither 
she  nor  any  of  her  company  should  be  harmed ;  and  in  that 
night  all  the  prison  locks  flew  open,  and  they  made  their 
escape;  and  many,  when  they  have  been  cast  into  the 
water  for  a  trial,  have  swam  like  a  cork.  One  of  them 
boasted  she  could  go  over  the  sea  in  an  egg-shell.  It  is 
held  on  all  hands  they  adore  the  devil,  and  become  his 
bond-slaves,  to  have  for  a  term  of  years  their  pleasure  and 
revenge.  And  indeed  many  of  them  are  more  mischeivous 
than  others  in  laming  and  destroying  cattle,  and  in  drowning 
ships  at  sea,  by  raising  storms.  But  the  Lancashire  witches, 
we  see,  chiefly  divert  themselves  in  merriment,  and  are 
therefore  found  to  be  more  sociable  than  the  rest. 


24 


Ch.   12. — A   short   description   of  the  famous   Lapland 

witches. 

The  Lapland  witches,  they  tell  us,  can  send  wind  to 
sailors,  and  take  delight  in  nothing  more  than  raising  of 
storms  and  tempests,  which  they  effect  by  repeating  certain 
charms,  and  throwing  up  sand  in  the  air.  The  best  way 
to  avoid  their  power  is  to  believe  in  God,  who  will  not  suffer 
them  to  hurt  us ;  for  here  they  are  held  to  be  restrained. 
As  many  mistake  their  children  and  relations  to  be  be- 
witched, when  they  die  of  distempers  somewhat  strange  to 
the  unskilful;  so  one  poor  woman  or  other  is  falsely  accused 
of  things  which  they  are  entirely  ignorant  of. 

This  may  suffice  as  to  what  comically  or  really  relates  to 
witches,  or  such  as  are  imagined  to  be  possessed  with  evil 
and  familiar  spirits. 


RICHARD   SHEALE'S  LOYE-SONG. 


From  MS.  48,  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum,  Oxford. 


1\/rY  Kebbell  sweete,  in  whom  I  trust, 

Have  now  respect  and  do  not  faylle 
Thy  faythfull  frend,  who  ys  most  just. 

And  shall  not  in  hys  frendshyp  quayle ; 
But  prove  hymself  as  just  and  true, 
As  ever  sowthe  was  fownd  in  yow. 

For  fleetynge  tyme,  nor  wastfuUe  swoord, 
Nor  tawntynge  gyrds  fawstred  in  art. 

Shall  make  me  to  forgo  my  woord. 
Nor  from  my  faythfull  frend  astart ; 

But  wyll  be  fownd  as  tryed  gowlde. 

As  frendlynes  requyrs  yt  showlde. 


Thy  tender  hart  to  gentell  kynde 

Dothe  show  what  rase  ingendred  the ; 

A  nobell  hart  in  the  I  fynd, 

Which  makes  me  to  thy  wyll  agre ; 

And  ever  wyll  and  ever  shall, 

Thowghe  I  showld  dwell  in  lastyng  thrall. 


26 

Lothsom  dysdayne  dothe  swell  to  se. 
And  ragyng  ire  doth  boyle  allso, 

For  sowthe  trew  faythe  grounded  to  be 
In  harts  dwellynge  on  yerthe  below; 

Wher  the  do  thynk  that  hydden  guylle 

Dothe  trap  men  wyth  hys  subtyll  wyll. 

I  woowld  I  had  the  nymbell  wynges 

Of  mylk-whyte  dove  that  clyps  in  sckye 

In  fethers  then  I  woold  be  clad 

To  mownt  over  the  mowntaynes  hye, 

And  lyght  on  the  I  woold  be  bolde, 

That  kepethe  fast  my  hart  in  howlde  ! 


-  (^ C^  f^J  (^ (^  f^ C^ ("^ (^  f5)  f.'^  Yw r5>  f^ r^  f^C^C?)C^  (^ (^  (^  (^{^ (^ 


LIYERPOOL  IN   THE  YEAE,  1714. 


T  MAY  say  the  same  of  Leverpool,  which  is  built  on  a 
bank  of  sand,  whose  entrance  from  the  sea  is  pretty 
difficult;  no  river  near  it,  nor  yet  any  fresh  water  in  the 
town  but  what  rain  affords ;  and  yet  is  a  large,  fine  built 
town,  some  merchants  having  houses  that  in  Italy  would 
pass  for  palaces.  The  new  church  is  one  of  the  finest  in 
England,  and  the  streets  neat ;  and  those  about  that  called 
the  New  Town  are  very  handsome  and  well  built. 

They  have  made  a  fine  dock  here  for  the  security  of  their 
shipping,  where  fourscore  sail  of  ships  may  lie  in  the 
greatest  storms,  as  secure  as  a  man  in  his  bed.  But  this  is 
all  forced,  nothing  of  nature  ;  and  when  they  have  brought 
fresh  water  into  the  town,  which  is  designed,  by  pipes  from 
some  springs  in  Sir  Cleve  More's  estate,  about  four  miles 
off,  and  for  which  they  have  got  an  act  of  Parliament,  may 
become  one  of  the  finest  towns  in  England.  Their  Exchange 
for  merchants  is  very  convenient,  hard  by  the  Town-house. 

From  Leverpool  I  went  to  Aeyton,  a  fine  seat  of  Sir 
Richard  Gresner ;  and  from  thence  to  my  Lord  Cholmley's, 
about  twelve  miles  from  Chester.  It's  a  noble  old  seat,  the 
gardens  not  inferior  to  any  in  England ;  and  one  gravel 
walk  the  longest  I  have  seen.     He  is  Lord  Lieutenant  of 


28 

the  County  of  Chester,  and  Treasurer  of  the  Houshold  to 
his  Majesty.  Nobody  makes  a  better  figure  at  court,  nor  a 
greater  in  his  country  than  he  does.  But  as  this  corner  of 
the  kingdom  are  generally  disaffected  to  the  present  govern- 
ment, his  zeal  makes  him  less  belov'd. 

You  may  reasonably  ask  me,  that  since  I  was  in 
Lancashire,  when  at  Leverpool,  I  did  not  proceed  through 
that  large  county,  before  my  return  to  the  midland  ones ; 
and  so  proceed  by  the  west  shore  to  Carslile  ?  The  reason, 
upon  the  strictest  enquiry,  was,  that  except  a  very  noble 
seat  of  the  Earl  of  Warrington's,  there  is  not  anything 
remarkable  in  Lancashire,  but  good  neighbourhood  and 
plenty ;  and  more  of  the  Roman  Catholick  religion  in  this 
county  than  in  any  three  others  in  England  :  a  remark  I 
forgot  to  make  of  North  Wales,  that,  except  at  Holly- Well, 
I  did  not  hear  of  one  dissenter,  or  one  Roman  Catholick,  in 
all  the  counties  I  went  through.— /owrwey  through  England, 
1714. 


MANCHESTER   IN   THE   YEAR   1714. 


"DEFORE  I  leave  Lancashire,  I  can't  but  take  notice  of 
Manchester,  which  is  ten  times  more  populous  than 
Preston.  Manchester  is  famous  for  its  Collegiate  Church, 
and  choir  of  excellent  workmanship,  a  noble  hospital  with 
large  endowments,  a  flourishing  school,  an  extraordinary 
library,  and  returns  more  money  in  one  month  than  Preston 
does  in  6fteen.  If  time  would  permit,  I  could  mention  three 
or  four  towns  more,  much  larger  than  Preston.  —  Travels 
through  England,  1714. 


THE  PALATINE   COUNTIES   IN  1634. 


From  an  account  written  by  three  military  officers  who  travelled 
through  them  in  that  year.     A  MS.  of  the  time. 


T7[7"E  entered  into  the  famous  County  Palatine  of  Lancaster, 
by  a  fayre,  lofty,  long,  archt  bridge  over  the  river 
Lun.  Wee  were  for  the  George  in  Lancaster,  &  our  host 
was  the  better  acquainted  with  the  affayres  of  the  shire,  for 
that  his  brother  was  both  a  justice  of  the  peace  &  a  chiefe 
gaoler  there,  by  vertue  whereof  wee  had  some  commaund 
of  the  Castle,  w'^''  is  the  hon'  &  grace  of  the  whole  towne. 
The  stately,  spacious,  &  princely  strong  roomes,  where  the 
Dukes  of  Lancaster  lodg'd.  It  is  of  that  ample  receit,  & 
in  so  good  repayre,  that  it  lodgeth  both  the  judges  &  many 
of  the  justices  every  assizes.  It  is  a  strong  &  stately 
castle  ;  and  commaunds  into  the  sea. 

[Proceeding  the  next  morning,  by  several  seats  &  castles, 
upon  the  rivers  Dee  &  Ribble,]  w'^'*  last  wee  pass'd  over  by 
a  fayre  arch'd  bridge,  within  5  or  6  miles  of  the  sea,  W^*" 
cutts  this  shire  in  sunder  iust  in  her  narrow  middle.  The 
wayes  being  so  pleasant,  the  situations  so  sweet,  the  soyle 
so  good  &  fertile,  as  made  us  truant  and  beguile  ourselves 


31 

in  the  time,  &  to  undergoe  such  (fortune  as  is  incident  to 
travellers,  for  being  benighted,  wee  mistooke  our  way,  & 
were  in  great  danger  among  those  deep  hell  coal-pitts ;  for 
w"^''  way  soever  wee  tooke,  we  were  still  led  to  those 
Tartarean  cells,  w'^''  our  horses  discovered  sooner  than  wee 
could,  &  by  their  snuffing  made  us  take  heed  of  them : 
surely  some  of  the  infernall  spiritts  have  their  residence  in 
them. 

It  was  now  time  or  never  to  consult  what  was  fittest  & 
speediest  to  be  done,  to  free  us  out  of  this  blacke  &  dismal! 
danger,  and  whilst  we  were  at  a  stand,  &  in  consultation, 
the  melodious  sound  of  a  sweet  cornet  arrested  our  eares 
(may  those  sweet  Wastes  ever  give  content  to  all  as  to  us), 
for  we  were  guided  &  conducted  through  woods,  from  this 
darksome  haunted  place,  by  the  sounding  thereof,  to  a 
stately   fay  re   house   of    a   gentleman    (Mr.   Standish,   of 
Standish),  that  was  the  High  Sheriffe  of  that  good  rich 
shire  this  yeere,  into  whose  custody  we  had  committed 
ourselves  but  that  wee  understood  that  his  house  was  that 
night  full  of  strangers. 

[Went  on  to  Wiggan,]  where  we  rested  that  night :  wee 
came  thither  late  &  weary,  &  had  fayre  quarter  afforded  vs, 
by  a  fat  honest  host,  an  alderman,  &  a  jovial  blade;  his  own 
castle  was  full,  yet  did  he  billet  vs  at  his  overthwart  neigh- 
bours, in  two  sumptuous  chambers,  where  we  all  soundly 
slept  after  our  (that  dayes)  enchantm'. 

[The  next  morning,  after  visiting  the  church,]  we  hastned 
to  our  joviall  alderman,  but  he,  with  a  noble  boone  Parson, 
another  honest  gentleman,  &  Mr.  Organist,  did  arrest  vs  in 


32 

their  fayre  market  place,  &  kindly  invited  us  to  their  morn- 
ing's draught,  a  whisk  in  of  Wiggin  ale,  w''''  they  as  heartily 
as  merrily  whiskt  off,  as  freely  &  liberally  they  call'd  for  it. 
It  was  as  good  as  they  that  gave  it,  for  better  ale  &  better 
company  no  travellers  whatsoever  would  ever  desire.  I  dare 
say  he  was  no  ordinary  parson,  neither  in  his  condition  nor 
calling ;  for  his  scale  stil'd  him  an  arch-deacon,  that's  his 
condition ;  and  what  he  call'd  for  he  freely  pay'd  for,  that's 
his  calling.  There  were  other  men  of  his  coat  generous 
like  himselfe,  sure  some  of  his  neere  neighbours,  into  whom 
he  had  infus'd  soe  curteous  a  garbe. 

[After  breakfast  the  following  day  we]  bad  this  good 
company  adieu.     This  honest  parson  would  not  let  us  passe 
w"'out  a  speciall  token  and  badge  of  his  love,  presented 
every  one  of  us  a  peece  of  canall  plate,  w*'''  we  kindly  ac- 
cepted off,  and  so  shooke  hands,  and  away  for  Chester, 
through  many  fayre  townes,  but    especially  two  sweetly 
built  and  situated  [Preston  and  Warrington] ;   and  by  as 
many  fayre  stately  seates  and  situations,  and  more  especially 
two,  the  one  a  goodly  castle,  and  Parke,  a  large  priviledg'd 
place,  plac'd  on  a  high  hill  [Houghton  Castle,  the  king's] ; 
the   other  not   far   from   that   [Rock   Savadge,  the  Lord 
Savadges],  sweetly  and    stately  situated,    upon   a   curious 
ascent,  neere  the  banke  of  a  pleasant  river  [the  Weaver], 
which  there  meets  another  river  [the  Marsie],  and  so  runs 
into  the  sea;  the  latter  of  W^*"  rivers   divides    those   two 
famous  County  Palatines,  Lancaster  and  Chester,  by  a  great 
and  fayre  archt  bridge,  against  that  sumptuous  rich  building 
and  parke  of  that  noble  lords  [Frosdam,  Sir  John  Savadge's], 


33 

and  another  neat  seat  of  a  knight's  [Sir  Peter  Lee's].  Be- 
fore we  came  thither,  we  past  through  a  towne,  where  the 
worth  of  the  parsonage  wee  cannot  forget,  deserving  a 
marginall  note  [Winwicke,  worth  £2000  p''  ann"].  There 
wee  bestow'd  some  small  time  in  viewing  such  a  church,  as 
maintaines  such  a  fat  rector,  and  in  her  the  monura*"  and 
chappell  of  the  Gerrards. 

[At  Chester.  Went  to  the  cathedral]  to  heare  a  grave 
prebend  preach  in  his  surplice.  This  place  was  not  answer- 
able to  others  we  had  pass'd,  unlesse  to  Carlisle;  it  is  an  old 
building  of  white  stone,  neither  was  there  any  ancient 
monum**  of  note  or  value. 

In  our  marching  the  city  rounds,  wee  pass'd  over  4  gates, 
w'^''  she  dayly  openeth  to  let  in  both  her  owne  country-men, 
and  her  neighbouring  Welsh  shentles.  At  one  of  these 
gates  next  the  said  river  wee  tooke  an  exact  view  of  the 
rare  water-workes,  w'=''  are  Middletoniz'd,  and  brought  up 
to  a  high  tower,  on  the  top  of  the  gate-house,  and  from 
thence  convey'd  by  trunckes  and  pipes  all  the  city  over,  as 
in  London.  The  river  w^'in  8  or  10  miles  of  the  city  falls 
into  the  sea,  upon  the  sandes  close  all  along  the  city  walls ; 
to  Wales  ward  is  a  long  fayre  race  for  horses,  where  hur 
will  run  her  Welsh  tyke  with  the  proudest  pamper'd  courser 
of  our  English  breed. 

This  wall  hath  many  strong  watch-towers  to  guard  her, 
and  one  kept  cleanely,  neat,  and  trim  by  the  spruce  com- 
pany of  Barbers. 

In  the  market  place  and  heart  of  the  city  yo"  may  walke 
dry  in  any  wet  weather  on  a  gallery  on  either  side  of  the 

5 


34 

streets  by  all  the  shops,  under  arches,  and  buildings,  about 
2  yards  high,  letting  into  the  street ;  the  forme  is  rare,  the 
buildings  but  indifferent.  The  cittie  and  her  buildings  are 
very  ancient,  and  soe  are  the  lawes  and  priv  Hedges,  both  in 
her  and  in  the  whole  principalitie ;  ffor  she  is  providently 
govern'd  by  a  mayor,  2.  sheriffes,  24.  aldermen,  of  the 
number  were  4.  of  great  ranke  and  worth,  2.  whereof  are 
lords,  and  2.  knights,  and  a  recorder. 

In  this  city  stands  a  stately  and  strong  habitable  castle, 
wherein  the  judges  of  the  circuit  lye.  Before  yo"  passe 
ouer  y"  fayre  archt  bridge,  into  the  inner  court,  on  the  left 
hand  in  the  Case  Court  stands  the  great  and  spacious  hall, 
where  they  sit  on  one  bench  togeather  a  whole  weeke,  the 
high  sheriffs  place  being  on  y®  one  side,  and  the  constables 
of  the  castle  on  the  other.  Adioyning  to  it  is  y"  Exchecquer, 
where  their  Courts  Palatine  are  kept,  wherein  sometime 
sitts  that  old  earle  the  Chiefe  Chamberlaine,  vsually,  and 
often  the  vice-chamberlaine,  and  constantly  and  daily,  the 
atturneys  and  clerks,  w*''  other  officers,  as  purseuants,  seale- 
keepers,  &c.  In  this  court  are  placed  the  armes  of  the 
8.  barons,  whereof  one  onely  is  now  extant  [the  Baron  of 
Kinderton]. 

There  is  8.  chvrches  in  the  citty :  in  one  of  them,  called 
St.  Maries,  is  Troplies  chappell,  where  upon  a  curious  mo- 
nument of  alabaster  lyes  the  L''  Troplie,  and  his  ladie,  a 
princesse  ;  his  sons  tombe,  and  his  ladys,  the  Earle  of 
Shrewsbury's  daughter ;  and  both  the  ffather  and  the  sonne 
in  their  martiall  habits. 

The  citizens  retaine  an  old  order  and  custome,  w'"^  is  this ; 


35 

allwayes  on  Christmas  even  the  watch  begin,  and  the  mayor, 
sheriffs,  aldermen,  and  fortye  of  the  common  counsel  goe 
about  the  cittie  in  tryumph,  w**"  torches  and  flireworkes. 
The  recorder  making  a  speech  of  the  antiquity  of  her, 
founded  by  gyants.  On  Midsummer  euen,  the  giants  and 
some  wild  beasts  (that  are  constantly  kept  for  that  purpose) 
are  carry'd  about  the  towne.  By  this,  time  it  was  to  leaue 
this  ancient  city,  w'=''  did  so  florish  in  y^  dayes  of  renowned 
King  Edgar ;  yet  ere  we  part  from  her,  wee  must  give  the 
governor  of  her  his  due,  by  whom  wee  were  gently  and 
curteously  entertain'd  in  his  owne  house,  who  being  call'd 
away  by  his  brethren  to  the  penthouse,  thither  also  he 
kindly  requested  vs  to  accompany  him,  where  we  were 
treated  like  statesmen. 

From  this  place  he  would  not  let  us  part  till  we  saw  the 
ancient  order  and  manner  in  making  of  their  ffreemen  there, 
and  thus  in  briefe  it  was.  Two  that  were  to  be  enfranchiz'd 
that  day,  came  in  both  of  them  w**"  helmets  on  their  heads, 
and  each  an  halbert  in  his  hand,  and  so  arm'd  tooke  an 
oath,  before  the  mayor  and  justices  then  present,  alwayes 
to  have  these  2.  defensive  weapons  in  readinesse,  for  the 
defence  both  of  the  king  and  the  city;  so  they  counter- 
marcht  away,  disarm'd  themselves,  marcht  up  againe,  and 
were  then  sworne  fre  members  of  the  city ;  psently  after, 
one  of  the  mayors  officers  enters  w**"  a  pottle  of  wine  and 
sugar,  wherew"»  this  worshipfull  company  bad  vs  freely 
welcome,  which  wee  kindly  embrac'd,  and  so  tooke  our 
leaues,  and  left  them  at  their  graue  counsells. 


THE    LIYERPOOL   TRAGEDY: 

Or,  A  Warning  to  Disobedient  Children  and  Covetous 
Parents,  shewing  how  one  John  Fuller  left  his  father's 
house  to  go  to  sea  against  his  will,  and  was  ship- 
wrecked, but  was  preserved  on  a  rock ;  how  he  was 
fetched  by  the  ship's  boat,  and  put  ashore  at  Bengal, 
where  he  married ;  how  he  returned  home,  when  he, 
not  informing  his  parents  who  he  was,  they  murdered 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  gold,  with  their  tragical  end. 


It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  wretched  doggrel  here 
reprinted  is  preserved  solely  on  account  of  its  local  interest.  It 
was  frequently  issued  both  in  the  broadside  and  chap-book  form, 
and  appears  to  have  been  popular  about  the  commencement  of  the 
present  century. 


'VT'OU  tender  parents  that  have  children  dear, 

Be  pleas'd  to  wait  awhile,  and  you  shall  hear 
A  dismal  accident  befel  of  late, 
Which  ought  to  bear  an  everlasting  date. 


37 

At  famous  Liverpool  in  Lancashire, 
One  Mr.  Robert  Fuller  liv'd,  we  hear ; 
A  grazier,  who  liv'd  in  a  happy  state, 
He  being  not  too  poor,  nor  yet  too  great. 

He  had  three  daughters,  charming  beauties  bright. 
And  but  one  son,  which  was  his  heart's  delight ; 
His  father  doted  on  him,  and  in  truth 
He  was  a  dutiful  and  sober  youth. 

He  bound  him  prentice  to  one  Mr.  Brown, 
A  noted  surgeon,  who  liv'd  in  the  town ; 
With  whom  he  staid  the  term  of  seven  years. 
And  serv'd  him  faithfully  as  it  appears. 

And  afterwards  some  time  did  with  him  dwell. 
And  as  a  servant  pleas'd  his  master  well ; 
He  got  acquainted  with  a  surgeon's  mate, 
Who  was  going  a  voyage  up  the  Straight. 

He  did  persuade  him  for  to  go  to  sea, 

And  said,  in  time  he  might  promoted  be; 

This  so  much  wrought  upon  the  young  man's  mind. 

That  he  to  go  with  him  seem'd  much  inclin'd. 

He  went  and  told  his  father  his  design. 
That  he  would  go  to  sea  in  a  little  time. 
For  I  to  the  East  Indies  now  will  go  ; 
Therefore,  dear  father,  do  not  say  me  no. 


38 

To  hear  these  words  his  father  was  surpris'd, 
It  soon  fetch'd  tears  from  his  aged  eyes ; 
Can  you,  my  son,  said  he,  from  me  depart, 
And  leave  me  here  behind  with  aching  heart. 

Because  I  plac'd  in  you  my  chief  delight, 
Do  you  my  tender  care  this  way  requite  1 
You  my  consent  to  go  shall  never  have, 
'Twill  bring  me  down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 

Go,  wilful  youth  ;  perhaps  the  time  may  come 
That  you  may  wish  you'd  stay'd  with  me  at  home. 
But  all  these  arguments  would  not  prevail, 
He  was  resolv'd  the  raging  main  to  sail. 

His  mother  cry'd,  I  thought  I  had  a  son 
Would  be  my  comfort  for  the  time  to  come ; 
His  sister  cry'd.  Dear  brother,  do  not  go, 
And  leave  our  father  thus  oppress'd  with  woe. 

His  father  said.  My  son,  let  reason  rule. 
Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  play  the  fool ; 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  change  ? 
What  makes  you  fancy  at  this  time  to  range  ? 

Father,  all  these  persuasions  are  in  vain, 
I  am  resolv'd  to  cross  the  raging  main ; 
Therefore  give  me  your  blessing  ere  I  go, 
For  I'll  begone  whether  you  will  or  no. 


His  father  cry'd,  Since  you  don't  me  regard, 
God  justly  will  your  wickedness  reward ; 
God's  heavy  judgments  will  upon  you  come, 
For  being  such  a  disobedient  son. 

So  you  must  go  without  what  you  now  crave, 
Mine  nor  God's  blessing  you  will  never  have. 
What  courses  now  this  stubborn  youth  doth  steer. 
You  in  the  second  part  shall  quickly  hear. 


He  went  with  speed  unto  the  surgeon's  mate, 
And  goes  with  him  a  voyage  up  the  Straights  ; 
But  with  that  voyage  he  was  not  content ; 
Further  to  go  his  rambling  mind  was  bent. 

He  came  to  London,  and  a  ship  he  found. 
Which  lay  at  Deptford,  for  the  Indies  bound ; 
And  straight  he  ordered  his  matters  so. 
As  surgeon's  mate  on  board  of  her  to  go. 

The  very  next  day  as  he  set  sail,  we  hear, 
He  sent  a  letter  to  his  father  dear ; 
Father,  he  wrote,  I  am  alive  and  well. 
But  when  I  shall  return  I  cannot  tell. 


4a 

I  am  on  board  a  noble  ship  of  fame. 
For  the  Indies  bound,  the  Prince  by  name ; 
I  will  come  home  when  my  wild  frolick's  run ; 
So  this  is  all  at  present  from  your  son. 

His  aged  father  read  the  letter  strait. 
And  said,  My  son  is  gone  in  spite  of  fate ; 
All  I  can  do,  I'll  act  a  father's  part. 
And  beg  of  God  to  turn  his  stubborn  heart. 

Where  now  his  aged  father  we  will  leave, 
And  turn  unto  his  son  which  made  him  grieve. 
Who  then  was  sailing  on  the  ocean  wide ; 
But  mark  in  what  short  time  did  him  betide. 

As  by  the  coast  of  Brazil  they  did  sail, 
Boreas  began  to  blow  a  blustering  gale ; 
The  captain,  then,  with  deep  concern  did  say. 
If  this  storm  holds  we  shall  be  cast  away. 

He  scarce  had  spoke  these  words,  when  on  a  rock 
The  ship  was  drove  with  such  a  mighty  shock. 
She  stuck  so  fast  she  could  not  get  away  ; 
So  they  in  sorrow  were  forced  to  stay. 

The  captain  cry'd,  Let's  beg  of  God  that  He 
May  from  this  shocking  danger  set  us  free ; 
Next,  let  all  hands  help  to  heave  out  the  boat. 
That  o'er  the  foaming  billows  we  may  float. 


41 

He  gave  command  ;  the  thing  as  soon  were  done, 
And  overboard  with  speed  the  boat  was  flung ; 
Each  one  to  save  his  life  got  in  with  speed, 
Until  the  boat  would  hold  no  more  indeed. 

The  boat  it  were  so  full  it  could  not  swim. 
So  some  were  forced  to  get  out  again ; 
The  surgeon's  mate,  the  grazier's  stubborn  son, 
As  fortune  order'd,  chanced  to  be  one. 

He  was  oblig'd  out  of  the  boat  to  go 
Back  to  the  ship,  his  heart  oppress'd  with  woe ; 
Fifteen  poor  souls  behind  them  they  did  leave. 
Whose  piercing  cries  a  stony  heart  would  grieve. 

The  captain  cry'd.  My  boat  will  hold  no  more ; 

But  if  I  should  live  to  get  on  shore. 

And  you  remain  alive  in  this  sad  case, 

I'll  surely  come  and  fetch  you  from  this  place. 


The  poor  distressed  men,  in  great  despair. 
Unto  the  Lord  did  make  their  humble  pray'r. 
Expecting  ev'ry  minute  for  to  be 
Sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  swelling  sea. 


42 


The  grazier's  son  said,  Here  I  will  not  stay, 
But  through  the  foaming  billows  swim  away ; 
I  can  swim  well,  the  sea  does  calm  appear ; 
So,  fare  you  well,  my  brother  sailors  dear  ! 

He  overboard  did  jump  before  them  all. 
Which  made  the  seamen  after  him  to  call  : 
You  silly  man,  you  cannot  get  on  shore. 
We  think  that  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 

Thus  he  went  along  till  almost  night. 
When  his  poor  limbs  were  tired  quite  ; 
But  fortune  unto  him  did  prove  so  kind, 
That  he  by  chance  a  mighty  rock  did  find. 

The  rock  was  rugged,  high,  and  very  steep, 
He  with  much  trouble  up  the  side  did  creep, 
And  looking  round,  no  land  he  could  behold ; 
He  cry'd.  My  sorrow  now  is  manifold. 

My  father's  words  into  my  mind  does  come. 
That  I  do  wish  I'd  stopt  with  him  at  home ; 
Also,  I  find  it  true  what  he  then  said. 
But  now  my  disobedience  is  repaid. 

He  likewise  told  me,  if  I  e'er  did  slight 
His  careful  counsel,  God  would  me  requite ; 
He  told  me,  though  a  blessing  I  did  crave. 
His,  nor  God's  blessing,  I  should  never  have. 


43 


He,  thus  lamenting,  spent  the  tedious  night, 
Until  the  morning  it  grew  light ; 
Then  went  to  search  the  rock  all  round, 
Where  for  his  food  some  shell-fish  he  found. 

Satan,  the  first  deceiver  of  mankind, 
Did  come  to  tempt  this  surgeon,  as  we  find. 
Thinking  he  would  on  any  terms  comply. 
So  took  advantage  of  his  misery. 

While  this  young  surgeon  looked  out  to  sea. 
At  a  good  distance  from  him  seem'd  to  be 
A  something  rowing  to  him  in  a  boat. 
Which  o'er  the  rolling  waves  did  swiftly  float. 

This  young  man  thought  he'd  been  a  friend  at  first, 
But  next,  he  fear'd  it  was  something  worse. 
For  if  some  wild  man-eater  it  should  be, 
He  first  will  kill,  the  next,  devour  me. 

The  young  man  were  soon  freed  from  fear. 
As  the  devil,  like  some  sailor,  did  appear; 
And  when  he  came  unto  the  rock  did  say. 
Young  man,  how  came  you  here  this  very  day? 


44 

The  surgeon  all  his  whole  misfortunes  told, 
And  while  the  truth  to  him  he  did  unfold, 
Three  drops  of  blood  down  from  his  nose  did  fall, 
Which  made  him  think  him  not  a  friend  withal. 

The  Devil  then  reply'd.  Young  man,  if  you 
Will  be  my  servant  wholly,  just,  and  true, 
And  will  resign  yourself  up  to  me, 
I  from  this  wretched  place  will  set  you  free. 

The  young  man  found  who  were  with  him  then. 
And  cry'd.  You  grand  deceiver  of  us  men, 
O,  get  you  gone,  your  flattery  forbear; 
Why  do  you  try  my  soul  for  to  ensnare ; 

I  now  your  whole  temptations  do  despise. 
Thou  subtle  fiend,  thou  father  of  all  lies ; 
I  will  resign  myself  to  God  alone. 
Therefore,  you  vile  deceiver,  quick  begone ! 

The  devil  then  he  strait  did  disappear. 
And  left  the  surgeon  trembling  with  fear ; 
Where  now,  awile,  we'll  leave  him  to  complain. 
And  turn  unto  his  shipmates  once  again. 

The  captain  in  the  boat  got  safe  on  shore. 
And  soon  returned  to  the  ship  once  more. 
Where,  out  of  fifteen,  nine  were  left  alive ; 
The  captain  did  their  drooping  hearts  revive. 


45 

Where  is  the  rest  of  you  1  the  captain  cry'd. 
Alas  !  with  hunger  they  have  dy'd. 
All  but  the  surgeon,  who  here  wouldn't  stay. 
And  overboard  did  jump,  and  swam  away. 

The  captain  cry'd,  I  hope  my  dream  is  right, 
That  he  were  on  a  rock  I  dreamt  last  night ; 
So  man  the  boat,  for  I  the  rock  do  know. 
To  save  his  life  I  thither  now  will  go. 

The  boat  was  mann'd,  and  to  the  rock  they  came. 
Where,  to  their  joy,  he  did  alive  remain  ; 
They  took  him  in,  and  then  rowed  away. 
Which  proved  unto  him  a  happy  day. 


^art  W. 

Their  ship  from  off  the  rock  they  soon  did  get. 
And  took  great  pains  in  well  repairing  it ; 
Then  for  Bengal  in  India  they  did  sail. 
And  soon  arrived  with  a  prosperous  gale. 

The  surgeon  soon  got  him  there  a  wife. 
And  ten  years  liv'd  a  very  happy  life ; 
Six  children  had  likewise,  a  good  estate. 
But  he  was  born  to  be  unfortunate. 


46 

About  his  parents  he  was  troubled  so, 
That  back  to  England  he  would  go ; 
He  left  his  wife  and  children,  as  'tis  told. 
And  with  him  took  ten  hundred  pounds  in  gold. 

Two  of  his  sisters  in  that  time  were  dead, 
The  other  to  a  glazier  married ; 
He  calld  there  first,  she  were  o'erjoy'd  to  see 
That  her  own  brother  yet  alive  should  be. 

How  does  my  parents  do  1  then  he  did  say. 
She  cry'd  They're  well,  I  saw  them  yesterday; 
But  they're  so  covetous  grown  of  late, 
They  scarce  allow  themselves  food  to  eat. 

This  night  I'l  go  and  lodge  there,  he  did  say; 
But  they  shan't  know  me  till  you  come  next  day. 
Unto  his  father's  house  he  then  did  go. 
Asking  if  he  a  lodging  could  have  or  no  ? 

They  answer'd.  Yes ;  and  bid  him  strait  come  in. 
But  now,  alas  !  his  sorrows  did  begin  ; 
His  father  said,  Young  man,  I  tell  you  true, 
I  had  a  son  who  was  very  much  like  you. 

A  purse  of  gold  he  to  his  mother  gave. 
And  then  tomorrow  it  of  you  I'll  have. 
She  cry'd,  I  will.     He  then  went  to  bed ; 
When  the  devil  quickly  put  it  in  her  head. 


47 

To  murder  her  own  son,  the  gold  to  have, 
For  that  was  all  she  in  this  world  did  crave  ; 
Husband,  said  she,  when  he  is  dead  and  gone, 
Then  all  the  gold  will  surely  be  our  own. 

To  murder  this  young  man  they  both  did  go. 
But  that  he  was  their  son  they  did  not  know ; 
They  found  him  fast  asleep,  void  of  all  care. 
Then  quickly  cut  his  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 

His  sister  came,  saying.  Father,  dear. 

Did  there  not  come  my  brother  here  1 

He  answer'd.  No.     She  said.  There  did  indeed. 

Alas  !  said  they,  we've  made  our  son  to  bleed. 

He  strait  then  took  up  the  bloody  knife. 
And  instant  put  a  period  to  his  life  ; 
His  wife  she  sat  a  little  while  below. 
At  last  up  stairs  did  to  her  husband  go. 

Where,  to  her  grief,  she  saw  him  bleeding  lie; 
She  cry'd,  Alas !  I've  caused  you  to  die. 
All  by  my  means,  for  the  sake  of  cursed  gold ; 
My  child  and  husband  dead  I  do  behold  ! 

Now  I  will  make  up  the  number  three, 

I  cannot  live  such  a  sad  sight  to  see  ; 

Saying, World,  farewell !  gold,  from  you  I  must  part! 

Then  run  the  knife  into  her  cruel  heart. 


48 


The  daughter,  wond'ring  at  their  long  delay, 
Did  go  upstairs  to  see  what  made  them  stay  ; 
When  the  dreadful  sight  she  did  behold. 
Her  dying  mother  all  the  story  told. 

Then  did  her  daughter  weep,  then  went  away. 
And  raving  mad  died  on  the  next  day. 
So  children  all,  from  disobedience  flee. 
And  parents,  likewise,  not  too  covetous  be  ! 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  COUNTESS  OF  DERBY. 

An  epithe  off  the  dethe  off  the  Ryghte  honorable  Lady 
Margrete  countes  off  Darbe,  which  departyde  this 
tvorld  the  ccicc  day  of  January,  and  was  buryede  the 
wwiif"  off  Phebruary  in  anno  Dni  1558,  on  whosse 
soil  God  have  mercye.  Amen,  quothe  Rycharde 
Sheale. 


MS.  Ashm.,  Vol.  xlviii,  Art.  57,  f.  107. 


O 


LATHAM,  Latham,  thowe  most  lament,  for  thovve  haste  loste 
a  floware ; 

For  Margret  the  countis  of  Darbe  in  the  yerthe  hathe  bylte  her  bowar. 
Dethe,  the  messenger  of  Gode,  on  her  hathe  wrought  his  wyll, 
Whom  all  creaturs  muste  nedys  obay,  whethar  the  be  good  or  ylle  : 
Ther  ys  no  emperowre,  kynge,  nor  prince,  his  powar  can  w*stande, 
But  when  he  commys  the  muste  obey,  no  remedye  can  be  fonde. 
When  this  good  Ladye  dyd  parseve  from  hence  she  shulde  departe, 
Farewell,  my  good  Lorde  &  Hussbande,  sayde  she,  farwell  w'  all 

my  hart ! 
The  noble  yerle  of  Darbe,  God  kepe  the  bothe  nyghte  and  daye  ! 
On  syght  of  the  I  wolde  I  myghte  se  or  I  wente  hence  awaye  ! 

T 


50 

Fache  me  the  laste  tokene,  quothe  she,  that  he  unto  me  sente  ; 
To  kys  hite  nowe,  or  I  departe,  hite  ys  my  whoU  intente. 
Ther  was  many  a  wepyng  eye  thes  lovyng  wordds  to  heare ; 
All  thosse  thate  stoode  here  abowte,  the  made  full  heavye  cheare. 
Farwell,  dowghetar  Margrete,  sayde  she,  God  grawnte  youe,  of  his 

grace. 
Be  good  unto  your  systar  Cateryne,  whillys  you  have  tym  &  space. 
Godds  blessynge  I  gyve  youe  hear,  bothe  nowe  &  evermore ; 
Look  ye  sarve  God  bothe  nyght  &  day,  and  be  good  unto  y"  poware; 
And  then,  I  truste,  your  noble  fathar  for  youe  he  wyll  provyde 
Suche  things  as  shalbe  nessessary  at  every  tym  &  tyde. 
Farwell,  good  lady  Mary,  and  my  lady  Jane  also, 
For  now  ther  ys  no  remedy  but  I  must  from  you  go. 
God  have  youe  in  his  kepyng,  &  presarve  youe  nyght  &  day, 
No  remedy  that  I  can  se  but  I  must  from  youe  away ! 
Farwell,  my  lovyng  brothar  Barlowe,  my  leve  I  tak  of  thee, 
Wyth  thes  mortall  yeys  that  I  nowe  bear  no  more  I  shall  you  see ; 
Comend  me  to  my  mothar  and  all  my  othar  flfrendds, 
I  trust  to  se  youe  in  the  heavyns  when  all  things  have  ther  endds  : 
Moche  mor  ther  was  spoken,  the  whiche  I  overpas. 
And  rephar  yt  to  the  hearars  that  then  present  was, 
Y*  the  may  mayke  reporte  accordyng  to  the  same. 
And  so  declare  the  deddys  wyll,  or  els  the  be  to  blame. 
Fache  me  the  godde  Stanlay,  sayd  she,  in  all  the  haste  ye  may. 
That  I  may  talke  my  mynde  to  hem  or  ever  I  go  my  waye. 
Whiche  Stanlay  wyll  you  have,  madam,  the  sayd  w*  on  accorde. 
Good  Sir  Thomas  Stanlay,  she  sayde,  y'  ys  so  lyke  my  lorde. 
A  messynger  then  for  was  made  to  fache  y'  jentyll  knyght. 
But  or  he  to  Latham  cam,  yt  was  abowt  mydnyghte : 


51 

When  that  he  sawe  y*  she  was  dede,  he  wept  &  mad  gret  mon, 
For  he  lovyde  here  well  &  she  lovyde  him,  all  this  ys  ryght  well 

knowne  : 
Farwell,  my  jentillmen  in  jenerall,  farwell,  my  yemen  ichone, 
I  may  no  lengger  hear  remain,  but  I  must  from  you  gone. 
Farwell,  my  jentyll  women,  all  my  leve  of  you  I  take ; 
I  am  not  able  for  your  great  penys  amendds  now  for  to  make. 
I  desyr  youe  all  to  pray  for  me,  whyllys  I  have  lyf  and  brethe, 
That  I  of  heven  may  cleam  my  parte,  be  Cristis  passion  &  dethe. 
Then  callyde  for  the  sacrament  of  Cristis  body  and  blude. 
To  se  y^  goodly  ende  she  mayde  dyd  many  a  mans  hart  goode. 
Lord  God,  quothe  she,  I  commen  my  sprite  into  thy  holy  handes, 
For  thowe  from  syne  haste  set  me  free  and  broken  all  my  bonds ; 
Be  Cristis  dethe  &  passione,  she  sayd,  I  trust  savyd  to  be : 
Then  yeldyde  she  up  the  goste,  &  gave  herselfe  to  dye. 
Nowe  ys  this  noble  lady  dede,  whom  all  the  world  dyd  love ; 
She  never  hurte  man,  woman,  nor  childe,  I  dar  well  say  &  prove ; 
She  never  hurte  none  off  her  men  in  word  nor  yet  in  dede, 
But  was  glade  allway  for  them  to  speake  such  tym  as  y"  had  ned. 
Latham  allway  both  nyghte  &  day  may  morn  &  mak  gret  mon. 
For  y"  losse  of  this  lady  dear,  whose  vertus  wear  well  knowene. 
The  noble  Yerle  off  Darbe,  I  pray  God  save  his  lyffe, 
Hathe  preparde  a  noble  buryall  for  his  moste  lovyng  wyffe ; 
Full  ryally  he  hathe  broughte  her  hom,  lyke  an  man  of  micil  fam. 
This  noble  countis  of  Darbe  his  wyffe  Margret  was  here  nam ; 
To  Armykyrke  was  her  body  brought  &  ther  was  wrappyd  in  clay. 
Many  was  the  wepynge  ye  y*  ther  was  sen  y'  daye : 
Ther  wear  in  blacke  gowyns  mornars  many  on, 
And  all  here  yemen  in  blacke  cotis  wear  clothed  everychon ; 


52 

Ther  wear  cot-armors  mad  right  fin  w*  gold  &  sylver  bright, 
To  se  them  wayt  uppone  the  corps  yt  was  a  goodly  syght. 
Ther  was  a  standarde  w*  bannars  &flaggs  w'=  was  pleasaunt  to  behold, 
All  men  rejosyde  y'  syght  to  se,  to  say  I  dar  be  bolde : 
Full  honorable  was  she  buryed  accordyng  to  here  state. 
And  every  man  was  set  in  ordare  after  a  semly  rate  : 
Ther  wear  both  knyghttes  and  squyars  &  jentillmen  also. 
Both  ladys  &  jentillwomen  &  many  othar  mo. 
My  Lady  Mary,  God  save  her  lyffe !  was  cheff  mourner  y'  day, 
Full  honorable  she  dyd  hereselffe  behave,  I  dar  be  bold  to  say. 
My  lord  Bisshope  of  Man  at  the  buryall  there  was, 
In  his  ornamentes  &  my  tar  he  sang  a  solem  mas : 
The  xix.  day  of  January  this  good  lady  she  dyd  dye. 
And  was  buryede  the  xxiiij*.  of  Phebruary,  y^  truthe  who  lyst  to  try: 
Such  a  gorgious  hers,  I  dar  be  bolde  to  say, 
Was  never  sen  in  Lonkeshyar  befowar  y'  present  daye : 
For  good  consideracion  ther  was  no  commen  doll. 
But  on  twesse  after  forty  pownde  was  dalt  for  here  soil 
To  the  poor  off  viij.  parisshes  next  joynynge  therabowte. 
Which  was  a  very  godly  dede  I  put  youe  owl  a  dowte : 
Nowe  God  have  merci  on  here  soli,  I  desyre  youe  all  to  pray, 
Y'  she  may  stande  on  Cristes  ryght  hand  at  y"  latter  day, 
Whenas  y"  good  shall  go  to  blys  &  the  wychyd  sort  to  hell, 
Becaus  y*  woulde  not  fle  from  syne,  whillys  y^  yn  yerth  dyd  dwell ; 
For  y^  y*  in  this  worlde  lyve  well  can  never  dy  amys. 
But  God  allway  wyll  them  presarve  &  bring  them  to  his  blyss  : 
W"  joye  y*  we  may  all  cum  to  God  graunt  us  of  His  grace. 
When  y*  we  shall  wende  hence  away  in  Heaven  to  have  a  place. 
Amen,  quoth  Ry chard  Sheale. 


'^®g?^>^g@i5r^>#=^S]j^-^<2S5>^^s31SI^#<^SIISs^ 


THE    LANCASHIRE    HEROES. 

hi  praise  of  the  Valiant  Champions  of  the  North. 


MS.  Ash.,  Vol.  xlviii,  Art.  52,  f.  101. 


W*in  y^  northe  centre 

Many  noble  men  there  be, 

Ye  shall  well  understand, 

Ther  ys  y*"  yerle  off  Westmorlond, 

Y"  quyns  lyffeteanant, 

A  nobleman  &  a  valyant ; 

Then  y"  ys  y"  yerle  off  Combarland, 

And  y*  yerle  off  Northomberland, 

And  Sir  Harrye  Perce  his  brothar, 

As  good  a  man  as  another, 

He  ys  and  hardy  knight, 

And  hath  oft  put  y''  Skotts  to  flight. 

Ther  ys  my  lord  Ivars,  my  lord  Dacars 

W  all  ther  partacors. 

Noblemen  &  stowte, 

I  do  put  youe  owt  off  dowte ; 

Yf  y^  Skotts  ons  looke  owte. 

Ye  wyll  rape  them  at  y''  sknowte. 


54 

For  Northarne  men  wyll  fight, 

Bothe  be  day  &  night. 

Her  enymyes  when     .... 

As  y®  hawk  uppon  her  pray  ; 

Ther  ys  also  Sir  Harry  Ley, 

W'=  dar  both  fight  &  fray, 

Whether  it  be  be  night  or  day, 

I  dare  be  bold  to  say, 

He  wyll  not  rone  away. 

He  ys  both  hardy  &  fre ; 

Ther  ys  also  Sir  Rychard  Lye, 

W''  ys  both  war  &  wice. 

And  of  polytyk  device, 

All  thes  well  I  do  knowe  : 

Yet  ys  ther  many  moo. 

The  which  I  cannot  nam, 

That  be  men  of  mickle  fame, 

God  save  the  yerle  of  Shrowesbyry ! 


c^^c^^c^msc^^e^^ctm^i^^i^^i^^Si^^i^^^s^^ 


THE    CHESHIRE    COMMANDERS. 

.^  List  of  the   Cheshire   Commanders   under  S"  Will. 
Brereton,  Rebell  in  Chief. 


MS.  Ashm.,  36,  37,  Art.  93,  p.  78. 


0»^  BILLY  QUAKE 

W">  his  rebells  doth  crack, 
They  are  hardy,  stout,  and  tall ; 

They  plunder  and  steale, 

Sincerely  in  zeale, 
And  Quack  is  their  generall. 

Afleck  is  a  Scotch  dog, 
He  must  dye  like  a  hog. 
And  Louthaine  is  sick  of  a  knee. 


pedigree. 


66 

Manvaring  nere  shrunk, 

Nor  Jack  Booth  from  a  Punke, 
Edward's  a  bankrupt  knave  ; 

Massey's  an  asse, 

Soe  Croxton  may  pas, 
His  wifes  zeale  makes  him  a  slave. 

Whitneys  an  arch  theife, 

And  Lounds  is  as  briefe, 
Baskervile  needy  and  poore ; 

The   .  .  .    pudding  Key 

Is  a  butcherly  boy. 
And  each  one 

The  booke  binder  Steele, 

Sure  got  by  y**  Dee'le, 
And  Bromehall  a  pedling  rogue ; 

Chesuris  will  lye, 

And  Warburton  cry. 
And  Stukely  will  cog  and  collogue. 

If  the  dee'le  have  his  due. 

Woe  to  Gerrard  of  Crew, 
And  Duckenfield  wanteth 

If  he  come  in  the  field, 

Like  a  capon  hele  yeild, 
And  Bukkeley  hath in  his  bones. 


57 

Ned  Minshulls  cut  nose, 

A  coward  still  shevves, 
And  Glutton  is  one  of  the  breede ; 

The  Carmans  of  the  Crue, 

That  base  Goldigue, 
And  Newton's  a  bastardly  weede. 

Bostock  for  his  lust, 
Did  penance,  twas  just ; 

The  lecher  was  catcht 

Rathbone,  worse  then  a  Jew, 
And  Lea  keepeth  Cree, 

S'  Randle  nere  built  it  therefore. 

Brooks,  mad  as  a  hare. 

At  Halton  doth  stare ; 
Jack  Marbury  lookes  for  a  parte. 

That  the  soldiers  stand  out 

Makes  them  both  to  pout. 
But  the  castle 

And  Ned  Hide  the  pimpe, 

That  farely  fat  impe, 
Tarply  not  to  forget. 

But,  alas  !  he  is  dead, 

Whome  he  once  did  bested  ; 
A  better  pimpe  noe  one  can  get. 


8 


58 

Lancasters  mad, 

And  Batons  as  bad, 
Manwaring  lookes  like  an  ape ; 

Osly  is  nought, 

And  Zanchey  was  cought 
When  he  was  in  a  captaines  shape 

Bearetree  w**"  his  pack, 

The  country  doth  rack. 
His  wife  is  a  frowning  jade ; 

She  spied  at  the  dore, 

When  his  Oswellstree  .... 
Went  w**"  him  to  Wales  for  to  trade. 

Will  Marbury's  done, 
False  Sparston  and's  son 

Have  scarce  a  peny  in  their  purse  : 
Elcock  doth  dote. 
Raven  lyes  in  his  throate. 

And  David  the  thresher  is  worse. 

La  vers  age  a  foole. 

Fort  like  a 

Was  made  a  justice  in  hast ; 

His  nephew  a  man. 

Hath  beleagured  a  can. 
But  now  he  growes  big  in  the  wast. 


59 

Theis  are  a  broode 
That  will  never  be  good, 

Yet  seeme  religious  and  wise ; 
They  rob,  kill,  and  steale, 
In  truth  and  in  zeale, 

By  flattery,  falsehood,  and  lyes. 


[The  following  explanation  of  these  nicknames  is  from  a  paper 
in  Ashmole's  handwriting.] 


gr  \^m  Brereton,  Leiu- 

tenant  Generall. 
Leiutenant  Coll.  Afflex. 
Major  Loudon. 
Cap*.  Geo.  Booth. 
Cap*.  Brooke. 
Cap*.  Edwards. 
Cap*.  Massey. 
Cap*.  Croxton. 


Cap*.  Whitney. 

Cap*.  Bromhall. 

Cap*.  Baskerville. 

Lounds. 

Stewkley. 

Key. 

MinshuU. 

Clutton. 

Chesuris. 


Cornd^  for  the  Cause. 

Mr.  Marbury. 
Mr.  John  Leigh. 
Mr.  Leversage. 
Mr.  Elcock. 
Mr.  Raven. 
Mr.  Davys. 


Warburton. 
Goldigew  Carman 

de  London. 
Dukenfield. 
Steele. 
Newton. 
Bulkley. 
Jo.  Bool. 
Jo.  Marbury. 
Gerrard. 


Promoters. 

Mr.  Lancaster. 
Mr.  Pearetree. 
Mr.  Sankey. 
Mr.  Osley. 


^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^3  P^2  ^12  ^f2  -12  Cl2  -12  -12  *  *  -fc 


To  the  r.  JiorP}^  Robert  Viscount  Kilmeddy,  and  the 
r.  W^^  Orlando  Bridgeman,  esq.^  Ftce-Chamberlain 
of  Chester. 


MS.  Ashm.,  Vol.  xxxvi,  xxxvii,  Art.  280,  f.  270. 


/^HESTER,  that  noble  County  Palatine, 

After  some  broyles,  by  Providence  divine. 
Few  dayes  before  y"  celebrated  birth 
Of  Christ  the  Prince  of  Peace  (who  came  to  earth 
Out  of  the  Fathers  bosome),  did  conclude 
A  wondrous  peace,  putting  an  end  to  rude 
Nick-names  (as  Round-head)  and  y*  deadly  thing. 
Robbery,  knowne  by  the  terme  Plundering. 
O !  may  Harpocrates,  that  silent  god. 
Not  suffer  these  base  crimes  to  have  abode 
Within  men's  hearts ;  yea,  surely  charme  the  tongue, 
And  hinder  it  from  venting  them  among 
Those  which  are  apt  quickly  to  take  offence, 
However  carefull  of  due  innocence  : 
Let  not  those  bellowes  fiercely  worke  upon 
Seare  heares  of  men,  to  cause  dissension 


61 

To  rise  again  in  an  unlucky  flame. 
Tending  to  hell,  from  whose  duke  first  it  came. 
(For  Sathan,  that  first  schismatck,  gives  life 
To  envy,  pride,  and  w'soere  breeds  strife.) 
Let  this  peace  ever  last,  ever  prevayle, 
Like  running  waters,  which  will  never  fayle. 

Cheshire,  thou  art  an  exemplary  shire. 
May  all  shires  follow  thee,  with  full  desire ; 
Take  such  best  courses  still,  and  never  cease 
To  passe  all  countyes  in  y"  waye  of  Peace. 

Fecit^  non  minus  (in  hoc)  orator  quam  poeta,  Andreas 
Woodde,  Pastor  Ecclesi<E  Warminchamiensis, 
in  agro  Cestriensi. 


THE  LIYERPOOL  MOmJMENT. 


"DRITANNIA  long  expected  great  news  from  her  fleet, 

Commanded  by  Lord  Nelson,  the  French  for  to  meet; 
At  last  news  came,  o'er  the  country  it  was  spread. 
That  the  French  was  defeated,  but  Nelson  was  dead. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  a  cause  for  to  weep  — 
A  victory  gain'd, 
A  loss  on  the  deep ; 
A  victory  gain'd,  &c. 

Not  only  brave  Nelson,  but  hundreds  were  slain. 
In  fighting  the  French  on  the  watery  main, 
To'  maintain  Britain's  honour,  glory,  and  wealth. 
They  fought,  and  would  not  yield,  till  they  yielded  to  death. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 

Come  mourn,  says  Britannia,  come  mourn,  children  dear, 
And  to  my  brave  Nelson  a  monument  rear ; 
Let  it  be  of  polish'd  marble,  to  perpetuate  his  name. 
And  in  letters  of  gold  write.  He  died  for  my  fame. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 


63 

When  the  merchants  of  Liverpool  heard  her  say  so, 
They  said.  Dearest  mother,  to  our  'Change  we  will  go ; 
And  there  we  will  build  a  most  beautiful  pile 
To  the  memory  of  Nelson,  the  hero  of  the  Nile. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 

Your  plan,  says  Britannia,  appears  excellent  good, 
A  monument  to  Nelson,  a  sword  to  Collingwood, 
Such  a  tribute  of  praise,  such  a  well-timed  reward. 
Will  make  my  brave  sons  Liverpool  to  regard. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 

In  the  room  of  dear  Nelson,  Collingwood  I  have  plac'd. 
And  with  a  rich  coronet  his  head  I  have  grac'd , 
In  the  steps  of  his  predecessor  let's  hope  he  will  tread. 
And  our  foes  will  ne'er  invade  us,  but  our  cannon  they  will 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c.  [dread. 

My  sons  on  the  ocean  mighty  deeds  have  done ; 
My  sons  in  foreign  lands  great  battles  have  won ; 
If  the  Nile  could  but  speak,  Egypt  but  declare. 
The  world  would  then  know  none  with  them  could  compare. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 

My  sailors  and  soldiers  need  not  to  be  told 
In  readiness  themselves  against  your  enemies  to  hold  ; 
They  your  cause  will  defend,  your  rights  will  support. 
And  from  an  invasion  keep  each  British  port. 
A  cause  to  rejoice,  &c. 


THE    LANCASHIRE    WITCHES. 


The  following  short  poem  is  taken  from  a  manuscript  common- 
place-book of  the  time  of  Charles  II,  which  consists  almost  entirely 
of  extracts  from  printed  books ;  and  this  may,  probably,  be  taken 
from  some  production  of  the  period,  though  the  work  has  not  yet 
occurred  to  me.  I  feel  sure  this  is  the  case,  having  a  certain 
recollection  of  having  met  with  some  of  the  verses  elsewhere. 
Perhaps  some  of  our  readers  would  kindly  indicate  the  source,  if  it 
occurs  to  them.  


/^OME,  gallant  sisters,  come  along. 

Let's  meet  the  devil  ten  thousand  strong; 
Upon  the  whales'  and  dolphins'  backs, 
Let's  try  to  choak  the  sea  with  wracks, 
Spring  leaks,  and  sink  them  down  to  rights ; 

And  then  we'll  scud  away  to  shoar,  * 

And  try  what  tricks  we  can  play  more. 

Blow  houses  down,  ye  jolly  dames, 
Or  burn  them  up  in  fiery  flames ; 
Let's  rowze  up  mortals  from  their  sleep. 
And  send  them  packing  to  the  deep. 
Let's  strike  them  dead  with  thunder-stones. 
With  lightning  search  to  skin  and  bones ; 
For  winds  and  storms,  by  sea  or  land. 
You  may  dispose,  you  may  command. 


65 


Sometimes  in  dismal  caves  we  lie, 
Or  in  the  air  aloft  we  flie  ; 
Sometimes  we  caper  o'er  the  main, 
Thunders  and  lightnings  we  disdain ; 
Sometimes  we  tumble  churches  down. 
And  level  castles  with  the  ground  ; 
We  fire  whole  cities,  and  destroy 
Whole  armies,  if  they  us  annoy. 


We  strangle  infants  in  the  womb, 

And  raise  the  dead  out  of  their  tomb  ; 

We  haunt  the  palaces  of  kings. 

And  play  such  pranks  and  pretty  things. 

And  this  is  all  our  chief  delight. 

To  do  all  mischief  in  despight ; 

And  when  w'  have  done,  to  shift  away, 

Untoucht,  unseen,  by  night  or  day. 


When  imps  do     ......     . 

We  make  them  act  unlucky  feats  ; 
In  puppets,  wax,  sharp  needles'  points 
We  stick,  to  torture  limbs  and  joints. 
With  frog's  and  toad's  most  poys'nous  gore, 
Our  grizly  limbs  we  'noint  all  ore. 
And  straight  away,  away  we  go, 
Sparing  no  mortal,  friend  nor  foe. 

9 


66 


We'l  sell  you  winds,  and  ev'ry  charm, 
Or  venemous  drug  that  may  do  harm ; 
For  beasts  or  fowls  we  have  our  spells 
Laid  up  in  store  in  our  dark  cells  ; 
For  there  the  devils  use  to  meet, 
And  dance  with  horns  and  cloven  feet ; 
And  when  we've  done  we  frisk  about, 
And  through  the  world  play  revel-rout. 


In  charnel-houses  we  do  crawl, 

Rattling  the  bones  of  great  and  small ; 

We  hurl  wildfire  balls  ore  men's  heads. 

And  slily  creep  into  their  beds. 

We  knock  men  down,  and  hurl  huge  stones, 

And  clubs  and  bats,  to  break  their  bones  ; 

We  play  bo-peep,  and  put  out  lights. 

Groan,  howl,  and  scare  folks  with  strange  sights. 


We  ride  on  cows'  and  horses'  backs. 
O'er  lakes  and  rivers  play  nice  knacks ; 
We  grasp  the  moon,  and  scale  the  sun, 
And  stop  the  planets  as  they  run. 
We  kindle  comets'  dazzling  flames, 
And  whistle  for  the  winds  by  names  ; 
And  for  our  pastimes  and  mad  freaks, 
'Mong  stars  we  play  at  barly-breaks. 


67 


We  are  ambassadors  of  state. 
And  know  the  mysteries  of  fate  ; 
In  Pluto's  bosom  there  we  ly, 
To  learn  each  mortal's  destiny. 
As  oracles  their  fortunes  show, 
If  they  be  born  to  wealth  or  wo. 
The  spinning  sister's  hands  we  guide. 
And  in  all  this  we  take  a  pride. 


To  Lapland,  Finland,  we  do  skice. 

Sliding  on  seas  and  rocks  of  ice, 

T'  old  beldams  there,  our  sisters  kind. 

We  do  impart  our  hellish  mind ; 

We  take  their  seals  and  hands  in  blood. 

For  ever  to  renounce  all  good. 

And  then,  as  they  in  dens  do  lurk. 

We  set  the  ugly  jades  a-work. 


We  know  the  treasures  and  the  stores 

Lock'd  up  in  caves  with  brazen  doors  ; 

Gold  and  silver,  sparkling  stones. 

We  pile  on  heaps,  like  dead  men's  bones. 

There  the  devils  brood  and  hover, 

Keep  guards  that  none  should  them  discover; 

Put  upon  all  the  coasts  of  hell, 

'Tis  we,  'tis  we  stand  sentinel. 


LIVERPOOL  IN  1706. 


Extracted  from  a  tract,  entitled  '  A  Trip  to  Leverpoole  by  Two 
of  Fate's  Children  in  search  of  Fortunatus's  Purse :  a  Satyre  ad- 
dress'd  to  the  Honourable  the  Commissioners  of  Her  Majesties 
Customs.     By  a  Gentleman  of  Lincoln's  Inn.'     Fol.,  Lond.,  1706 


/^UR  business  being  much  the  same, 
At  length  to  Liverpoole  we  came. 
Which  well  deserves  the  voice  of  fame ; 
Where  Fortunatus  left  his  purse, 
As  we  had  heard  some  men  discourse ; 
And  any  man  alive  wou'd  guess 
By  the  town's  sudden  rise  no  less ; 
From  a  small  fishery  of  late, 
Become  the  darling  child  of  Fate ; 
So  wealthy  grown,  so  full  of  hurry, 
That  she  eclipses  Bristol's  glory; 
Her  trade,  as  well  as  sumptuous  houses. 
Where  the  chief  publican  carouses. 
The  port's  infallible  director. 
In  modern  English  call'd  collector. 
Does  manifestly  testify 
Her  mightiness  a  mystery; 


69 


A  riddle  wants  an  exposition. 
Without  the  purse's  kind  permission, 
A  treasure  inexhaustible. 
Constantly  drain'd,  yet  always  full ; 
A  hocus-pocus  way  of  thriving, 
A  sudden  tast  of  splendid  living. 
Which  by  the  merchants  does  appear, 
By  chance,  or  choice,  establisht  here. 
Yet  none  can  compass  this  foundation 
Without  address  and  application ; 
That  man  who  wou'd  improve  his  store, 
Must  launce  out  some  to  get  in  more. 
If  sparing  of  his  back  or  pelfe, 
The  catif  may  go  hang  himself ; 
Int'rest  upon  a  lushious  scent 
Requires  no  force  of  argument ; 
Nor  is't  a  sin  to  cheat  the  queen, 
Provided  one  can  do  it  clean. 
From  profit  can  accrue  no  curse. 
If  blest  with  Fortunatus'  purse. 
If  to  possess  it  be  my  lot, 
What  need  I  value  how  'tis  got  ? 
The  veriest  fool  belongs  to  th'  port, 
May  guess  where  he's  to  make  his  court. 
So  properly  no  sinner  can. 
That  does  his  int'rest  rightly  scan, 
As  to  the  happy  publican. 


70 


Now  wou'd  you  know  why  our  controuler 
In 's  office  places  brother  Jouler  ? 
Ask  him  the  reason  of  his  doing. 
He'll  tell  you  he  gets  more  by  brewing. 
How  ere  he  came  the  stock  to  get. 
His  patent  scarce  is  paid  for  yet. 
Thus  trades  are  juggled  dext'rously 
Between  the  publican  and  he. 
Beyond  the  reach  of  spiteful  rally. 
As  long  as  both  their  books  keep  tally ; 
Of  seisures  now  she  does  descry 
The  nice  invisibility. 
Custom-house  rats,  sharp-set,  devour 
All  solid  goods  within  the  store ; 
If  liquid  ones,  the  cask  did  run, 
Or  the  hoops  flew,  which  is  all  one. 
By  transmutation,  in  a  trice. 
True  lofty  nance,  crab-sider  is  ; 
All  moveables  become  a  game. 
Or  never  twice  appear  the  same. 
By  this  and  t'  other  modern  locust. 
The  seiser's  property  is  hocust ; 
But  Parker's  camblet  was  true  blue. 
Therefore  appear'd  again  in  view, 
The  same  in  specie,  tho'  not  shape. 
On  which  the  sheeres  had  done  a  rape ; 
You  now  may  two  o'  th'  vermin  see, 
Trim'd  up  in  Parker's  livery. 


71 

What  was  in  sight  he  knew  full  well, 

The  rest  was  crib'd  in  taylor's  hell, 

Whence  no  redemption  any  more 

Than  from  the  rapparees  in  power. 

My  dad  will  stoop  to  save  a  pin, 

And  why  not  more  when  his  hand's  in  1 

His  profitable  curtesy. 

Paid  to  each  supernum'rary. 

The  pot,  spit,  table  does  supply  ; 

His  conscience,  for  convenience  sake, 

Like  parson's  barn,  turns  nothing  back. 

Malice  may  call  this  bribery. 

And  yet  I  know  no  reason  why 

If  on  my  will  your  bread's  attendant. 

Are  not  acknowledgments  dependant "? 

If  a  hard  winter  once  did  bilk 

His  brats  o'  th'  cow  that  gave  'em  milk. 

Grateful  returns  do  best  confute. 

When  he  that  makes  'em  's  most  put  to  't. 

If  costly  superfluities 

Support  our  female  vanities, 

We  absolutely  here  parade 

Without  'em,  nothing's  to  be  had. 

The  publican  dares  nothing  do. 

But  what  my  mother  prompts  him  to ; 

For  he's  at  beck  like  spaniel  dog — 

She  wears  the  breeches,  he  the  clog. 

A  most  obsequious  lover-smut, 

And  old,  insipid,  sorry  put. 


72 

When  the  mundungus  fleet  came  in, 

'Twas  we  that  did  your  business  then ; 

Your  cargo  laid  in  the  queen's  yard, 

'Twas  by  our  management  you  steer'd. 

Old  dad  and  his  fraternity 

You  soust  one  night  in  Burgundy, 

And  every  sense  did  gratify. 

For  at  a  friend's  they'll  drink  their  fill, 

And  let  it  pass  for  what  you  will. 

But  then,  of  the  same  dog  a  hair, 

Next  morning  made  their  wisdoms  stare. 

In  short,  you  had  a  sudden  view, 

The  queen  was  paid  her  custom  too, 

But  then,  what  damage  did  accrue  1 

The  merchant  will  the  better  get, 

Especially  a  favourite. 

At  other  times,  when  goods  you  run. 

With  what  facility  'tis  done, 

Putting  the  change  upon  the  ship. 

All  hands  were  friends — ay,  marry,  whip. 


<S^S> 


THE    POSIE    OF   A   RING. 

Verses  written  to  his  Love  that  sent  him  a  Ring  wherein 
was  gravd,  ''''Let  Reason  rule,''  from  Chester, 
anno  1585. 


From  a  common-place  book,  temp.  Eliz.     (MSS.  Rawl.) 


OHALL  Reason  rule  where  Reason  hath  no  right, 

Nor  never  had  ?     Shall  Cupid  lose  his  landes, 
His  claim,  his  crown,  his  kingdome,  name  of  might, 
— And  yeilde  himselfe  to  be  in  Reason's  bandes  ? 
No,  friend,  thy  ring  doth  wil  me  thus  in  vaine : 
Reason  and  Love  have  ever  yet  beene  twaine. 


They  are,  by  kinde,  of  such  contrarie  mould, 
As  one  mislikes  the  others  lewde  devise  : 

What  Reason  willes  Cupido  never  would, 
Love  never  thought  Reason  ever  wyse. 

To  Cupid  I  my  homage  then  have  done ; 

Let  Reason  rule  the  hearts  that  she  hath  wonne. 


10 


THE  PRAISE  OF  LANCASHIRE  MEN; 


OR, 


A  few  lines  which  here  is  peri  d. 
Wherein  they  Lancashire  lads  commend. 


Tune — A  Job  for  a  Journeyman  Shoomaker. 


'VT'OU  muses  all  assist  my  pen, 

I  earnestly  require 
To  write  the  praise  of  the  young  men 

Born  in  Lancashire  : 
They  are  both  comely,  stout,  and  tall, 

And  of  most  mild  behaviour ; 
Fair  maids,  I  do  intreat  you  all 

To  yield  to  them  your  favour. 


When  Lancashire  lads  doth  feel  the  dart 

Of  Cupid's  bow  and  quiver. 
And  aim  to  take  a  fair  maid's  part, 

I'm  sure  he'l  not  deceive  her : 


76 


Unto  their  promise  they  will  stand, 
Which  they  to  you  propounded ; 

They  will  not  break  for  house  nor  land. 
If  love  their  hearts  have  wounded. 


There  is  knights'  sons  and  gentlemen, 

That's  born  in  Lancashire, 
That  will  be  merry  now  and  then, 

If  need  it  do  require ; 
The  plowman  likewise  is  our  friend. 

Which  doth  use  plow  and  harrow ; 
He  freely  will  his  money  spend. 

When  he  meets  with  his  marrow.* 


In  Lancashire  there's  brisk  young  lads. 

As  are  within  our  nation. 
Most  of  them  of  several  trades 

Or  some  occupation ; 
That  their  wives  they  can  well  maintain. 

And  bring  them  store  of  treasure. 
All  by  their  labour  and  their  pain. 

They  live  with  joy  and  pleasure  : 

*  That  is,  mate  or  companion. 


T6 


It  is  a  most  delightful  thing 

And  pleasure  for  to  hear 
These  boys  their  songs  and  catches  sing 

When  they  drink  ale  and  beer : 
They  will  be  merry,  great  and  small. 

When  they  do  meet  together; 
And  freely  pay  for  what  they  call, 

A  figg  for  wind  and  weather ! 


At  pleasant  sports  and  football  play 

They  will  be  blyth  and  jolly. 
Their  money  they  will  freely  lay. 

And  cast  off  melancholly. 
When  Lancashire  lads,  of  several  trads, 

They  have  a  jovial  meeting. 
Each  man  a  glass  unto  fair  maids. 

Will  drink  unto  his  sweeting. 


Brave  Lancashire  lads  are  souldiers  stout. 

Whose  valour  have  been  tryed 
At  sea  and  land  in  many  a  bout. 

When  thousands  brave  men  dyed  ; 
And  always  scorned  for  to  yield. 

Although  their  foes  wer  plenty ; 
If  they  but  ten  men  on  the  field, 

They  surely  will  fight  twenty. 


77 


Great  James  our  king  they  will  defend. 

As  well  as  any  shire ; 
To  England  they  will  prove  a  friend 

If  need  it  do  require. 
They  loyal  subjects  still  hath  been. 

And  most  of  them  stout-hearted. 
Who  still  will  fight  for  king  and  queen, 

And  never  from  them  started. 

Now  to  conclude,  and  make  an  end 

Of  this  my  harmless  sonnet, 
I  hope  no  man  I  do  offend ; 

Each  man  put  off  his  bonnet 
And  drink  a  health  to  James  our  king, 

And  to  our  English  nation ; 
God  us  defend  in  every  thing. 

And  keep  us  from  invasion  ! 


NEWES  OYT  OF  CHESHIRE  OF  THE 
NEW  FOUND  WELL. 


Imprinted  at  London  by  F.  Kingston  for  T.  Man.    1600. 


Newes  out  of  Cheshire,  concerning  the  New  Found  Well, 
as  it  is  contained  in  a  letter  lately  sent  from  a 
Cheshire  man  to  a  gentleman,  a  deere  friend  of  his, 
in  Northampton-shire. 

TTE ARTIE  commendations  prefixed.  You  earnestly  de- 
sire me  in  your  last  letters  to  impart  unto  you  a  true 
report  of  the  New  Found  Well  here  in  Cheshire,  whereof 
you  haue  so  many  incredible  reportes  in  that  countrey,  as  it 
would  greatly  satisfie  you  to  heare  that  which  were  un- 
doubtedly true.  That  which  in  so  short  a  time  I  could 
gather  and  set  downe  for  your  satisfaction  herein,  I  have 
sent  you  inclosed.  The  matter  itselfe  would  require  to  be 
handled  by  some  men  of  great  learning  and  iudgement,  not 
one  of  my  small  understanding,  and  to  be  published  to  the 
world  in  a  graue  and  iudiciall  discourse,  not  barely  reported 
in  a  plaine  unlearned  letter :  but  syth  you  desire  it,  I  will 


79 

aduenture  to  deliuer  you  my  knowledge  and  opinion  touching 
this  New  Well.  If  the  length  of  my  letter  be  troublesome 
to  you,  you  may  thanke  yourselfe  for  urging  me  to  write  of 
a  matter  which  my  skill  serueth  not  to  containe  in  the 
limittes  of  an  ordinarie  letter.  Now  I  have  undertaken  it, 
I  can  be  no  briefer,  then  first  to  preamble  it  a  little :  then 
to  tell  you  the  place,  the  situation,  the  description  of  the 
Well,  then  some  of  the  effects  and  cures  it  hath  wrought, 
the  credit  and  opinion  it  daily  winnes,  and  to  doe  you  all  the 
pleasure  that  I  can  in  this  intelligence,  I  have  with  my 
penne  drawne  a  true  plot  and  scite  of  the  Well  as  it  is 
placed :  so  I  desire  to  be  heartily  remembered  to  all  my  good 
friends  at  Stoke-lodge.     Chester  the  12.  of  August,  1600. 

Your  Brother  in  Law  euer  Assured.     G.  W. 


Newes  out  of  Cheshire  concerning  the  New  Found  Well. 

It  is  a  well  knowne  trueth,  that  the  giuer  of  all  good 
blessings  doth  diversly  bestowe  the  same  vpon  mortall 
creatures  here  on  earth,  and  in  the  bestowing  thereof,  hath 
alwaies  obserued  a  distinction  or  difference  of  persons,  times, 
and  seasons,  as  revaling  some  at  one  time  and  some  at 
another,  and  how  some  which  have  been  hidden  and  vn- 
knowne  to  all  ages  heretofore  past,  haue  been  shewed  to 
men  of  latter  daies.  Among  all  other  benefits  extraordina- 
rilie  throwne  downe  from  that  bountifull  hand,  what  hath 
oftener  been  felt  in  man's  comfort,  than  the  finding  of  reme- 


80 

dies  against  diseases,  and  medicines  against  the  fraile  infir- 
mities of  our  corruptible  bodies  ?  The  proofe  hereof  is  the 
well  knowne  inuention  of  so  many  new  devised  easements 
and  helps  for  all  manner  of  maladies,  and  we  see  that  as  new 
and  new  distempers  doe  from  age  to  age  still  bring  forth 
infirmities,  not  seene  nor  heard  of  former  times  ;  so  men 
haue  been  inspired  euermore  with  giftes  and  graces  of  that 
excellencie,  whereby  they  haue  found  out,  vsed,  and  applied 
profitable  remedies,  neuer  formerly  inuented  nor  prescribed. 

And  of  all  things  in  the  world  found  to  be  medicinable 
and  helpfull  to  man's  health,  no  one  thing  may  challenge  so 
great  a  preeminence  (as  an  instrumental!  cause)  as  water, 
wherein  euen  from  the  worlds  beginning  hath  euer  been 
found  most  excellent  soueraigntie  of  preseruation  and  re- 
couerie  of  mens  decaied  health,  and  remedie  against  seuerall 
diseases.  And  as  the  vnspeakable  Prouidence  created 
water  at  the  first  to  be  one  of  the  chiefe  meanes  to  nourish 
and  feede  the  bodies  of  such  creatures  as  were  to  live  by 
sustenance  :  so  hath  he  miraculouslie  at  diuers  times  indued 
speciall  waters  to  be  effectuall  against  mens  infirmities :  a 
thing  most  apparant  in  all,  both  sacred  and  humane,  stories 
and  testimonies. 

Naaman's  washing  him  seuen  times  in  Jordan  at  the 
prophet's  commandement,  to  be  healed  of  his  leprosie, 
implieth  the  fitnes  of  water  in  the  curing  of  so  grieouous  a 
disease,  and  albeit  the  Almightie  power,  who  indeede  per- 
formed that  cure  miraculouslie,  could  as  well  haue  done  it 
by  the  vse  of  any  other  matter,  yet  herein  was  shewed  the 
fit  vse  and  application  of  water  aboue  all  other  things,  for 


81 

the  effecting  of  that  glorious  worke  :  and  may  not  the  like 
be  affirmed  touching  that  lame  cripple  in  the  Gospell,  which 
had  lyen  so  long  by  the  poole,  wanting  meanes  to  be  put 
into  it,  whereof  he  was  still  preuented  by  those  who  thrust 
in  before  him  for  recouerie  of  infinite  infirmities  ? 

Besides  the  peculiar  graces  bestowed  on  some  speciall 
waters  vpon  extraordinarie  occasions,  what  simple  iudgement 
cannot  obserue  that  the  vse  of  pure  and  good  waters  hath 
in  all  ages,  at  all  times,  in  all  places,  and  with  all  persons, 
been  of  such  estimation,  that  (to  speake  nothing,  that 
nothing  medicinable  or  needfull  can  serue  man's  necessitie 
without  some  necessarie  helpe  of  water)  bathing  and  washing 
hath  been  as  the  common  and  readiest,  so  the  most  effectuall 
and  soueraigne  preseruatiue  of  health  and  remedie  against 
infirmities ;  and  hath  thoroughout  the  whole  world  been 
practised  not  alone  by  vulgar  people,  or  young  vnlearned 
feeble,  sicke,  or  poore  persons,  but  by  men  most  wise, 
learned,  mightie,  rich ;  yea,  kings,  emperors,  and  greatest 
monarkes  of  the  earth. 

To  what  purpose  (will  it  happilie  be  asked)  is  this  far 
fetcht  preamble  placed  in  the  front  of  so  slender  a  discourse  ? 
Truly,  not  that  I  would  here  trouble  my  selfe  to  proue  a 
matter  that  perhaps  is  not  doubted  of,  or  which  no  man 
meanes  to  make  question  of,  but  onely  to  this  ende :  euen 
that  hauing  prepared  the  mindes  of  such  to  whom  these 
newes  shall  be  imparted,  to  yeeld  to  this  reason,  and 
remember  it  as  a  trueth,  that  extraordinarie  remedies  are 
often  euen  wonderfuUie  reuealed  to  mankinde  for  helpe  of 
their  diseases,  and  that  the  most  excellent  instrument  which 

11 


82 

hath  most  oft  conuaied  that  soueraigne  good  to  men,  hath 
been  and  is,  some  speciall  water;  they  may  with  better 
approbation  conceiue  the  report  of  our  newes  of  the  New 
Found  Well,  and  with  gentler  credulitie  imbrace  the 
benefit,  and  beleeue  the  trueth. 

The  famous  Countie  Palatine  of  Cheshire  can  boast  of 
many  excellencies,  wherein  a  countrie  either  for  profite  or 
pleasure  may  be  tearmed  happie.  Among  other  the  orna- 
ments thereof,  I  cannot  but  greatly  commend  a  most  stately, 
large,  and  as  I  may  so  terme  it,  a  princely  forrest  (though 
there  be  others  also  within  the  shire)  situate  euen  in  the 
chiefest  and  best  knowne  parts  of  the  countie,  called  the 
Forrest  of  Delamere,  belonging  to  her  Maiestie.  The  same 
bordering  towards  the  west  and  northwest  side,  neere  to 
Merzey,  an  arme  of  the  ocean,  in  many  old  records  of  this 
countie,  is  called  the  Forrest  of  Mare-mondiam,  but  is  best 
knowne,  and  hath  been  very  auncientlie  called  by  the  name 
formerlie  mentioned. 

Giue  me  leaue  a  little  to  describe  vnto  you  the  same 
forrest,  because  in  it  is  the  well  whereof  I  intreate.  There 
are  about  the  middest  of  the  forrest  certaine  ruinous  walles 
of  stone,  some  inclosures,  and  the  prints  of  an  auncient 
situation,  which  as  well  common  report  of  the  countrie,  as 
also  the  testimonies  of  the  best  writers  of  England's  antiqui- 
ties doe  affirme  to  haue  been  a  citie  (and  it  should  seeme 
indeede  to  haue  been  a  walled  towne)  there  founded  and 
built  by  Eadelsteda  a  Queene  of  Merceland :  and  the  place 
to  this  day  is  called  Eadesburie,  whereof  the  whole  hundred 
(being  a  seuenth  part  of  the  shire)  reteyneth  still  the  name. 


B3 

The  borrough  or  towne  being  now  vtterly  decaied  and 
gone,  there  remaineth  onely  vpon  the  top  of  the  vtmost 
height  within  that  situation,  a  proper  built  lodge,  called  the 
Chamber,  and  hath  been  for  the  most  part  maintained  and 
inhabited  by  a  famous  race  of  gentlemen  (the  Dones),  of 
whome  for  certaine  hundreds  of  yeares,  knights  and  squires 
of  that  surname  (hauing  still  by  inheritance  been  masters 
of  the  game  or  chiefe  forresters  there)  haue  left  good 
remembrances  of  their  worthes  and  great  reputation  to  all 
posteritie:  and  is  now  possessed  by  a  worshipfuU  gentleman, 
John  Done,  Esquire :  whom  the  rather  I  am  bolde  here  by 
name  to  mention,  because  of  his  charitable  disposition 
and  gentlemanlike  furtherance  of  the  benefit  of  this  well, 
to  the  reliefe  of  all  sorts  of  people  that  seeke  for  helpe 
by  it. 

About  a  mile  and  halfe  from  the  Chamber  toward  the 
southwest  side  of  the  forrest  is  situate  the  New  found 
VVel.  All  the  westerly  and  southerly  side  of  the  forrest  is 
mountanous,  and  full  of  vaste  vneuen  hilles,  scattringly 
beautified  with  many  okes  (yet  most  of  them  shrubby  and 
of  low  growth)  and  not  fewe  queaches  &  thicks  of  hull  and 
hauthornes,  the  hils  themselues  for  the  most  part  distin- 
guished by  galles  and  gutters  made  by  waters  falling  from 
springs  and  other  places,  which  in  continuance  of  time  haue 
worne  and  eaten  deepe  passages. 

In  the  side  of  one  of  these  hilles,  whose  declining  lyeth 
almost  full  upon  the  north  and  north-east,  ariseth  the  spring, 
head,  and  fountaine  it  selfe  now  called  the  New  found 
Well :  the  same  insensibly  issuing  from  firme  ground  at  the 


84 

roote  or  foote  of  a  shrubbie  hull  or  hollintree,  yet  so  as  the 
same  hull  standing  at  the  south-west  corner  of  the  well 
there  is  some  twentie  inches  distance  betweene  them. 

The  well  or  cesterne  being  bordered  with  three  or  foure 
flagge-stones  (as  the  compasse  of  it  without  breaking  any 
earth  about  it  would  giue  leaue)  is  almost  foure  square, 
conteyning  south  and  north  about  30  inches,  west  and  east 
about  26  inches. 

Whether  the  spring  issue  upright  from  the  bottome,  or 
from  the  one  side,  or  from  all  sides,  it  is  not  perceiued.  I 
rather  iudge  it  comes  at  the  south-side  (which  is  the  backe 
of  it,  and  beares  against  the  descent  of  the  hill).  If  it  should 
bubble  forth  at  the  bottome  (as  in  many  other  welles  I  have 
seene)  this  water  being  so  cleare  it  might  be  easily  perceiued, 
especially  the  spring  being  free,  and  yeelding  continuall 
issue  in  a  good  proportion. 

I  have  seene  indeed  many  orderly  springes  farre  exceede 
it  in  strength  and  bignesse  of  gush,  yet  have  I  not  known 
any  to  keepe  a  more  certain  and  vniforme  course,  nor  deliuer 
his  water  in  so  close  and  vnperceiuable  manner,  as  this  well 
doth. 

The  force  or  streame  which  the  spring  is  well  able  to 
maintaine,  is  about  so  much  water  as  you  may  imagine 
would  continually  runne  at  full  through  a  pipe  or  tronke, 
whose  concaue  or  hollow  were  three  or  foure  inches 
compasse. 

The  descent  of  the  hill  beneath  the  well  northward  is 
steepe,  and  the  waste  water  falling  north  from  the  fountaine 
hath  both  of  it  owne  course,  and  shortly  meeting  with  some 


85 

other  rilles,  worne  the  ground  to  a  great  hollow  dingle, 
which  carrieth  them  downe  to  a  brooke  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  by  which  they  are  conueyed  to  a  great  poole  of  Sir 
John  Egerton's,  neere  little  Budworth,  which  serueth  Olton 
Milles;  so  that,  albeit  the  spring  sendeth  his  water  at  the 
first  northerly,  yet  within  lesse  then  one  quarter  of  a  mile's 
labour  it  windeth  about  the  hill  skirte,  and  then  holdeth  his 
course  full  southerly. 

What  the  vaines  of  the  earth  about  it  may  be,  or  from 
what  manner  of  mixture  the  spring  should  issue,  I  dare  not 
take  vpon  me  to  set  downe,  hauing  neither  skill  to  iudge  of 
such  matters,  nor  having  had  meanes  as  yet  to  procure 
search  made  to  finde  the  nature  of  the  mould  whence  it 
springes,  which  I  know  would  be  greatly  materiall  to  such 
as  haue  skill  and  knowledge  how  to  iudge  of  the  power  and 
efficacie  of  the  water  thereby.  All  that  I  can  say  in  this 
respect,  is  that  the  vpper  part  or  face  of  the  earth  there 
seemes  to  be  a  stiffe  clay,  insomuch  that  the  resorters  thither 
hauing  made  some  one  or  two  slender  weake  dammes  to 
stay  the  water,  halfe  a  dozen  yards  or  more  beneath  the 
foutaine,  there  are  by  that  meanes  two  small  lakes  or  pooles 
wherein  poore  people,  when  they  are  disposed,  do  bathe  and 
wash  themselues,  which  pooles  they  be  verie  unfit  for  that 
purpose,  being  verie  vnhandsomely,  thicke  and  muddy  with 
the  clay  and  soyle  of  the  earth,  yet  they  shew  the  fitnesse 
and  commodious  means  how  cesternes  or  some  handsome 
prouisions  might  be  made,  either  open  or  close,  for  the 
people  of  all  sortes  to  vse  their  best  benefit,  and  that  so 
farre  from   the  head  of  the  spring,  and  so  much  beneath 


86 

the  bodie  and  seate  of  the  fountaine  itselfe,  that  there  were 
no  perill  by  breaking  or  digging  the  ground,  to  worke  anie 
annoiance  or  hinderance  to  the  vertue  of  the  spring  or 
water  thereof. 

There  be  many  that  at  their  first  taste  of  the  water,  doe 
confidently  affirme  they  feele  as   it  were  some  relish  or 
smacke  of  an  allome-like  composition ;  and  not  a  fewe  I 
haue  heard  censure,  that   there  seemes  to  them   a   little 
resemblance  of  the  tast  of  licoris ;  some  compare  it  to  some 
other  things :  for  my  part  (because  I  am  purposed  to  auerre 
nothing  herein,  but  what  I  am  verilie  perswaded  to  be  true) 
as  I  can  allow  of  no  man's  taste  to  be  authenticall  in  this 
point,  unlesse  I  could  also  find  it  in  mine  own,  so  truly  I 
must  confesse  that  it  is  a  water  different  from  manie  other 
spring  waters  in  taste,  and  the  most  pleasantest  in  drinking 
of  anie  that  I  haue  euer  tasted,  onely  the  relish  is  to  me  of 
no  especiall  thing  that  I  can  name,  and  the  operation  such 
as  in  my  iudgement,  and  by  experiment  upon  mine  owne 
and  manie  others'  bodies,  it  neuer  ofFendeth  with  cold  or 
heauy  weight  in  a  man's  stomack,  as  the  most  sorts  of  waters 
vsually  doe. 

It  is  one  thing  most  notorious  and  worthie  to  be  so,  that 
no  persons  of  anie  sort  whatsoeuer,  which  take  it  in  anie 
good  quantitie,  but  can  and  do  report  that  they  find 
difference  in  the  operation  of  it  from  other  waters,  and  most 
comonly  it  is  obserued  that  to  such  as  are  unhealthfull,  and 
grieued  with  some  infirmitie,  they  are  sure  by  the  water  to 
finde  in  themselues  some  alteration :  to  such  as  are  healthful! 
and  verie  sound  of  bodie,  it  either  worketh  no  motion  at  all, 


87 

or  if  anie,  it  looseth  the  bellie,  and  giueth  most  gentle  and 
hurtlesse  purgations. 

That  there  may  be  some  alluminous  mixture  within  the 
ground,  by  which  the  spring  hath  his  passage,  one  reason 
may  be  that  quick  piercing  nature  which  is  found  in  it,  both 
in  the  inward  receipt  of  it,  and  the  outward  application 
to  greene  wounds  and  cuts,  vpon  which  with  wonderfull 
speed  it  worketh  effectually.  And  besides,  though  I  neuer 
made  triall  myselfe,  the  generall  report  is  that  by  reason  of 
a  secret  sharpe  tartnesse  that  is  in  it,  the  water  will  turne  or 
breake  milke,  whereinto  it  is  put,  immediately. 

An  other  reason  of  the  same  efficacy  may  be  this,  which 
I  can  well  testifie  vpon  mine  owne  knowledge,  that  it 
skowreth  and  cleanseth  anie  thing  which  is  washed  in  it, 
more  then  anie  water  that  I  haue  knowne,  insomuch  that  it 
is  of  exceeding  vse  for  the  keeping  white  and  faire  the  face 
and  handes,  better  and  more  pleasing  to  many  then  the  vse 
of  sopes,  washing  balles,  or  such  other  mixtures,  neither 
so  wholsome  nor  so  pleasant  as  this  naturall  pure  spring 
water. 

This  may  be  sufficient  for  the  situation  and  description  of 
the  well,  will  you  now  heare  the  manner  of  finding  it. 

In  the  ende  of  the  last  winter  quarter,  and  beginning  of 
this  spring  time  nowe  past,  here  in  these  partes  (as  I  thinke 
elsewhere)  there  raigned  an  extreame  contagion  of  sicknesse, 
not  infectious,  yet  so  generall,  as  few  escaped  without  some 
or  other  touch  of  vnhealthfulnesse.  Among  other  sorts  of 
infirmities,  many  were  tormented  with  hot  burning  agues 


88 

and  feuers  of  all  kindes,  which  agues  the  vulgar  people  here 
(especially  when  they  light  on  children  or  young  folkes,  or 
that  they  hold  them  but  interraissiuely,  so  that  the  patient 
lies  not  by  it)  call  it  the  Fitles. 

One  John  Greene  way,  of  Vtkinton,  an  honest  substantiall 
countriman  of  good  credit  and  well  reputed,  being  about 
fiftie  yeeres  of  age  or  somewhat  more,  was  about  the  ende 
of  March  last  past  troubled  with  the  fittes  ;  he  tried  such 
ordinarie  remedies  as  the  countrie  experiance  would  otfer, 
but  found  no  abatement  of  his  disease,  at  length  he  calls 
to  mind  an  experiment,  that  sixteene  or  seuenteene  yeeres 
now  past  in  the  like  necessitie  had  relieud  him :  and  this 
it  was. 

Being  at  that  time  vexed  with  the  fits,  and  finding  no 
ease  nor  remedie  for  it,  he  thought  good  to  repaire  to  a 
learned  phisition  at  that  time  lying  at  the  Citie  of  Chester, 
which  is  about  sixe  or  seuen  miles  distant  from  Greenwaies 
house. 

The  phisition  tooke  good  regard  of  the  man's  infirmity, 
and  being  a  man  both  learned  and  conscionable  prescribed 
to  him,  that  he  should  get  him  home,  keepe  him  warme,  vse 
good  diet,  and  not  to  omit  to  walke  forth  in  the  mornings, 
to  finde  out  some  good  pure  spring  water,  to  drinke  of  it,  to 
bathe  and  wash  himselfe  with  it,  and  herein  he  doubted  not 
he  should  recouer  his  health  shortly, 

I  have  hereat  not  a  little  beene  troubled  in  mine  owne 
opinion  to  resolue  in  any  probable  appearance,  what  to 
deliuer  touching  the  phisition's  direction,  as  whether  he 
might  speake  this  of  an  excellencie  of  knowledge,  or  hauing 


89 

before  that  time  either  read  in  some  vnknowne  memoriall, 
or  had  vnderstanding  of  peculiar  vertue  to  be  in  that  or 
some  other  water  thereabout,  or  that  he  spake  in  generalitie, 
meaning  that  anie  pure  spring  water  were  good  for  that 
mans  infirmitie;  or  whether  the  great  guider  of  all  man's 
inuention  for  general  benefits  did  not  herein  vse  the 
phisitions  prescription,  as  a  meanes  of  that  future  benefit  he 
meant  to  bestow  upon  poore  distressed  creatures :  which 
last  surmize,  I  verily  hold  most  answerable  to  my  owne 
satisfaction,  yet  so,  as  I  leaue  it  with  the  rest  to  each  man's 
particular  choice  and  approbation. 

Howsoeuer  it  were,  Greeneway  being  well  acquainted  with 
the  springs  and  all  other  commodities  of  the  forrest,  had 
soone  found  out  this  prettie  purling  fountaine,  both  for 
puritie  and  situation  (as  he  thought)  fittest  to  answere  the 
phisitions  direction,  and  there  by  drinking,  washing,  and 
accomplishing  what  he  was  commaunded,  in  verie  shorte 
time  hee  was  of  his  ague  throughly  cured. 

Since  that  time  till  this  present  yeere  he  hath  lined 
healthful!  and  sound,  but  being  againe  surprized  with  the 
same  griefe,  necessitie  then  enforcing  the  remembrance  of 
his  former  helpe,  he  repaired  to  his  auncient  medicine  againe, 
where  a  short  triall  had  soone  taught  him,  that  this  was  a 
remedie  of  greater  regard  then  he  formerly  made  of  it: 
and  thereupon  tooke  better  notice  and  aduisement  of  it  then 
before  he  had  done. 

It  happened  within  the  space  of  one  moneth  after  this, 
that  one  of  his  sonnes,  and  afterwards  a  second,  and  then  a 
third  were  successively  taken  with  the  Fittes,  and  each  of 

12 


90 

them  seuerally  eased  and  holpen  by  the  vse  of  this  well, 
according  to  their  fathers  direction,  as  he  himselfe  had  done 
before  them. 

The  neighbours  neere  vnto  him  hearing  and  finding  the 
trueth  of  this  successe,  began  to  resort  to  the  well,  as  either 
the  same  sicknes  or  anie  other  griefe  gaue  them  cause,  and 
when  the  experiance  of  many  confirmed  the  vertue  thereof 
to  extend  to  giue  helpe  and  ease,  not  onely  to  agues  and 
other  inward  diseases,  but  also  to  be  medicinable  to  all 
manner  of  outward  grieuences  and  sores,  it  drew  people  in 
verie  great  numbers  to  repaire  thither,  and  the  more  trials 
put  in  execution,  the  more  credit  and  account  it  hath  euer 
since  gotten. 

If  I  thought  it  not  a  thing  both  ridiculous  and  in  some 
sort  infamous,  to  spread  in  people's  eares  vaine  tales  and 
incertainties,  I  would  then  haue  stuffed  this  discourse  with 
such  surmises,  as  perhaps  would  go  more  currant  and 
plausible  to  many,  then  a  bare  recitall  of  the  trueth 
touching  the  finding  of  the  New  found  Well.  And  vpon 
this  conceit  I  have  thought  fit  to  omit  the  laying  forth  of 
sundrie  opinions,  as  they  nowe  are  deliuered  among  common 
persons  and  some  others  of  good  note  touching  the  same. 

I  spare  to  discourse  vnto  you  what  coniectures  are  daily 
cast  abroad,  that  the  same  well  should  haue  beene  of 
knowne  and  notable  vertue  in  the  dales  of  the  afore  named 
Queene  Eadilflede,  and  vsed  by  her  meanes  and  main- 
tenance to  the  generall  reliefe  of  people  in  those  dales,  but 
afterwards  in  the  outrages  and  oppressions  which  the 
conquering  Danes  made  in  the  countrey,  it  was  closed  and 


91 

stopped  up  to  preuent  the  benefite  which  that  common 
rigorous  enemie  might  haue  receiued  by  it :  but  because  I 
finde  no  such  thing  recorded  in  any  remembrance  that  I 
reade  or  heare  of,  I  leaue  the  credit  thereof  to  such  proofe 
as  they  can  make,  who  would  perswade  the  world  that  it 
is  so. 

I  have  heard  likewise  some  persons  of  no  meane  account 
report,  that  there  are  within  this  countie  some  credible 
recordes  which  might  be  produced,  wherein  mention  is 
made  of  an  auncient  well,  within  the  precincts  of  Delamere, 
that  many  yeares  past  was  esteemed  of  great  vertue  and 
efficacie,  insom.uch  as  the  same  being  dedicated  by  the  first 
Christians  which  had  vse  thereof  to  holy  Saint  Stephen, 
the  same  still  beareth  name  (in  the  said  records)  of  Saint 
Stephen's  Well,  and  by  circumstances  therein  gathered,  it 
is  said  that  this  late  found  well  may  be  likely  to  be  the 
same  :  whereof,  hauing  no  further  proofe,  then  as  yet  I  can 
attaine  vnto,  I  leaue  it  as  doubtfull  as  the  former. 

But  I  will  proceede  with  the  further  explication  of  the  late 
effects  of  this  water,  which  since  the  great  repaire  and 
concourse  which  people  of  all  sorts  haue  made  vnto  it,  is 
found  to  be  profitable,  not  onely  against  agues,  which  was 
the  first  virtue  reuealed  in  it,  but  also  against  all  manner  of 
coldes,  stoppings,  grypings,  gnawings,  coUicks,  aches, 
ruptures  and  inward  infirmities,  and  no  lesse  soueraigne 
against  sores  and  outward  anguishes,  wounds,  swellings, 
vlcers,  festers,  impostumes  and  hurts  of  the  seuerall  ioynts 
and  members ;  besides  that,  it  hath  done  no  small  number 
of   straunge  cures,   against  sorenes  of   eyes   and    eares, 


92 

blindnesse,  deafnesse,  lamenesse,  stiffnesse  of  sinnewes, 
numbnesse,  weaknesse,  and  feeblenesse,  all  which  I  am  able 
to  auerre  and  proue,  by  vndeniable  demonstration  from  the 
seuerall  effects  of  infinite  numbers  of  people,  that  haue 
giuen  witnesse  thereof  in  these  three  or  foure  moneths  now 
last  past. 

I  call  them  infinite  numbers,  because  indeede  the  resort 
thither  immediatlie  after  the  first  rumour  of  the  well,  grew 
vncountable,  and  the  people  as  well  of  Cheshire,  as  all  the 
bordering  shires  thereabouts,  trauelling  thither  daily  in 
greater  and  greater  multitudes  (euen  till  they  amounted  by 
estimation  to  more  than  two  thousand  in  a  daie).  Master 
Done  euen  then  at  the  first,  although  it  were  a  great 
disturbance  to  her  Highnesse  deere  in  the  forrest,  and 
occasion  of  much  other  inconuenience  to  the  countrie, 
yet  in  regard  of  the  notable  comfort  that  sicke  and  diseased, 
and  pleasure  that  healthfull  and  sound  persons  received  by 
it,  hath  been  contented  to  allow  free  accesse,  and  permitted 
all  manner  of  meete  prouision  to  be  brought  vnto  it,  with  most 
carefull  and  worshipfull  foresight  and  heede,  as  well  that  no 
money  nor  fee  should  be  exacted  for  the  vse  of  the  water 
which  God  had  freelie  bestowed  on  poore  and  rich,  as  also 
that  there  should  be  order  and  gouernment  warilie  taken 
ouer  all  such  as  resorted  thither,  so  that  no  manner  of 
misdemeanor  or  disorder  should  growe  in  that  place,  where- 
unto  such  great  assemblies  are  apt  and  prone  enough,  if 
good  heede  and  preuention  be  not  A'sed. 

To  which  purpose  it  happened  well  that  the  well  itselfe 
falleth  within  the  limits  of  a  walke  in  the  forrest,  which  hath 


93 

long  time  been  kept  and  watched  by  one  John  Frodsham, 
the  keeper  of  that  walke,  who  as  he  was  a  very  fit  and 
meete  person,  both  for  his  good  discretion  and  estimation  to 
take  the  gouernment  and  ordering  of  people  of  the  inferior 
sort,  and  for  the  entertainment  of  the  better  sort  as  they 
resorted  thither,  so  hath  he  taken  great  paines  and  care  in 
discharging  the  trust  in  him  reposed,  for  satisfaction  of  all 
manner  of  resorters  thither,  and  daily  endeauoreth  himselfe 
by  all  waies  and  meanes  possible,  that  his  master's  good 
and  forward  inclination  to  doe  all  both  poore  and  rich  equall 
furtherance  in  their  desires,  may  honestly  and  respectiuely 
be  accomplished. 

Now   by  that   which   hath   been  before  set  downe,  it 
appeareth  what  diuersitie  of  cure  this  well  water  hath  made 
vpon  sundrie  persons,  as  shall  be  more  largely  proued  to 
such  as  make  doubt  of  the  trueth  of  these  reports.     For  as 
it  consequently  foUoweth  that  (these  things  being  graunted) 
then  is  this  water  found  beneficiall  and  medicinable  against 
more  seurall  sorts  of  diseases  and  infirmities,  then  any  one 
remedie  that  hath  been  commonly  knowne,  heard  of,  or 
experimented   (which   reporte  is   indeede  wonderfull,  and 
scarcely  to  be  beleeued  to  such  as  have  not  been  eye 
witnesses   thereof),  so  were  it  a  great  boldnesse  and  an 
enterprise  of  a  very  brainsicke  disposition  in  me,  that  should 
affirme  the  same,  vnlesse  I  were  warranted  by  the  experiance 
of  so  many,  so  credible,  so  wise,  so  graue,  so  sufficient 
persons,  both  in  Cheshire,  Lankashire,  Darbishire,  Stafford- 
shire,  Shropshire,   Flintshire,   Denbighshire,  and    others, 
from   whence  men,  women,  and  children  hauing  resorted 


94 

hither  in  such  abundance,  there  is  not  any  but  haue  giuen 
ample  testimonie  that  they  found  some  extraordinarie 
pleasure  by  drinking,  or  other  vse  of  the  water  (especially 
those  who  vpon  any  cause  of  griefe  haue  received  it)  as 
more  at  large  I  might  very  well  make  manifest,  if  I  thought 
it  conuenient  or  much  necessarie  for  me  to  publish  that 
approbation  and  testimonie  vnder  their  seuerall  names, 
which  many  of  the  best  ranke  of  the  inhabitants  of  these 
adioyning  countries,  haue  and  doe  freely  and  trulie  giue 
of  it 

And  least  it  should  be  expected  that  I  should  insist  vpon 
some  particular  instances,  or  otherwise  suspected  I  dealt  not 
plainlie,  but  sought  to  beguile  persons  remote  and  farre 
dwellers,  with  words  whereof  I  had  no  proofe,  I  thinke  it 
not  impertinent  to  set  downe  the  particulars  of  some  of  the 
cures  made  vpon  diuers  diseases,  in  diuers  persons,  of  diuers 
habitations ;  which  though  they  be  skant  an  hundredth  part 
of  those  which  might  be  registred  to  haue  receiued  benefit 
by  the  well,  yet  it  shall  be  sufficient  to  any  reasonable 
minde,  to  take  viewe  and  note  by  these  of  what  power  and 
force  the  water  is  found  to  be :  wherein  I  cannot  in  any 
sort  be  conuinced  of  lying  or  misreporting,  because  they 
are  testimonies  taken  from  the  confession  of  all  the  parties 
themselues,  and  witnessed  by  the  beholders,  being  many 
scores,  yea,  hundreds  of  people  of  all  these  countries,  who 
haue  seene  the  proceedings  as  here  is  deliuered. 

First,  for  the  curing  of  agues,  there  is  none  within  any 
reasonable  distance  from  the  place,  but  know  what  numbers 
have  been,  and  are  dailie  cured  of  that  infirmitie,  especiallie 


95 

of  such  as  dwell  neere  the  well,  or  haue  staled  a  competent 
space  to  take  benefite  by  the  water  in  the  best  kinde: 
which  is  to  receiue  it  fresh  from  the  fountaine  itselfe :  let  it 
suffice  to  name  these  fewe  for  example. 

The  aforenamed  John  Greenwaie,  William,  Thomas,  and 
Ralphe  his  sonnes,  all  honest  young  men  and  credible 
persons. 

One  William  Johnson,  a  seruant  to  Ralphe  Smethers, 
extreamlie  vexed  with  an  ague,  was  upon  May  Day  last, 
spedily  and  perfectly  restored  to  his  health  by  drinking  this 
well  Avater. 

One  Master  Haworth,  of  Congerton,  an  honest  gentleman, 
deliuered  from  the  fits  within  once  or  twice  washing  and 
drinking. 

One  Joan  Gorst,  a  substantial  honest  man's  daughter, 
likewise  perfectly  cured  of  an  ague,  which  had  handled  her 
in  such  extremitie,  that  through  weakenes  she  could  not  be 
brought  on  horsebacke,  but  as  she  was  staied  and  held 
vpon  the  horse,  she  recouered  health  by  three  or  foure  times 
drinking  and  washing. 

For  sorenes  and  blindnes  of  eyes,  consider  these  few 
reports. 

Hugh  Rowe,  of  Darnall,  a  man  of  good  wealth  and  very 
honest  credit,  hauing  been  quite  depriued  of  the  sight  of 
one  eye  for  three  yeares  space,  by  washing  oft  in  this  water, 
hath  welneere  recovered  sight  in  the  same  againe,  a  cure 
that  among  the  rest  hath  much  confirmed  both  mine  and 
many  others  beleefe  of  the  effectuall  operation  of  this 
water,  being  well  acquainted  with  the  losse  of  his  say'd 


96 

eye,  and  knowing  well  the  man's  worth  of  credit  in  that 
behalfe. 

Thomas  Leonard,  borne  at  Salisburie,  and  latelie  blind 
for  the  space  of  two  yeares,  hath  with  washing  in  this 
water  about  twelue  dayes  receiued  sight  againe. 

Ralphe  Hickenson,  a  poore  labourer,  fallen  of  late  yeares 
very  blinde,  as  hath  been  well  knowne  to  many  of  the 
worshipfull  gentlemen  in  the  countrey,  who  thereupon  haue 
caused  reliefe  and  prouision  for  him  according  to  the  statute, 
hath  by  the  use  of  this  water  recouered  sight  againe,  which 
serueth  him  well  to  goe  without  leading,  which  before  he 
could  not  doe. 

One  Robert  Bradley,  who  came  out  of  Darbishire  the  24 
of  July,  being  borne  at  Chappell  in  the  Frith,  was  led 
hither  blind,  hath  here  recoured  sight,  and  the  fourth  of 
August  is  gone  home  without  leading. 

One  of  Edge,  in  Cheshire,  hauing  had  a  pearle  fifteene 
or  sixteene  yeeres  in  one  eye,  by  this  water  got  remedie 
for  it. 

Cures  of  aches  and  griefes  in  the  ioints  and  body  have 
beene  such  as  follow. 

One  Anne  the  wife  of  William  Wield,  of  Rushton,  hauing 
such  paine  in  her  backe  and  hippes,  that  she  was  altogether 
vnable  to  go,  is  by  vsing  this  water  become  perfectly  sound, 
and  goeth  well. 

One  Anthony  Bigges,  a  souldier  late  in  the  regiment  of 
Sir  Samuell  Bagnall,  came  forth  of  Ireland  verie  lame,  sicke, 
and  feeble,  not  able  to  mooue  farther  than  he  was  supported 
by  crouches,  on  the  24  of  July  began  to  vse  this  water,  and 


97 

the  29  of  the  same  had  recoured  strength,  and  went  lustily 
homeward  toward  Somersetshire,  with  onely  a  walking  staffe 
in  his  hand. 

Roger  Nickson,  a  substantiall  man,  now  Maior  of  Ouer, 
confesseth  himselfe  to  be  cured  of  a  sore  paine  he  had  in 
one  of  his  legs. 

One  Ralph  Lightfoot,  of  the  same  corporation,  saith  he 
had  a  certain  griping  in  his  body,  which  would  take  him 
three  or  foure  times  a  day,  and  almost  plucke  him  to  the 
ground,  and  in  short  time  now  hath  beene  fully  cured 
thereof. 

George  Blacamore,  of  the  same  society,  saith,  that  by 
twice  washing  he  was  cured  of  an  issue  of  water  which 
came  from  his  knee  by  a  cut  with  an  axe,  which  before 
would  have  drenched  through  nine-fold  of  cloth  in  lesse  then 
a  quarter  of  an  houre. 

One  James  Kelsall  cured  of  a  legge  which  had  beene  sore 
for  many  yeeres  before,  and  would  be  holpen  by  no  meanes 
till  now. 

One  Edward  Billington,  of  Middlewich  parish,  hauing  a 
straunge  disease  in  his  body,  that  he  was  not  able  almost  to 
mooue  himselfe,  is  now  able  to  go  to  the  well  with  ease, 
being  almost  foure  miles  distant. 

One  Mistres  Drakeford,  of  Congerford,  was  here  cured  of 
some  infirmities  in  her  bodie,  as  by  her  husband  was  credibly 
reported. 

One  Hugh  Fairechild,  of  Prescot  parish  in  Lancashire, 
affirmeth  himselfe  to  be  hereby  cured  of  a  rupture. 

One  Randol  Phitheon,  of  Warmincham,  yeoman,  was  long 

13 


98 

time  benummed  by  a  poyson,  that  he  could  almost  hold 
nothing  in  his  hand,  auoucheth  that  he  hath  receiued  great 
comfort  by  this  water. 

Robert  Hall,  of  the  parish  of  Whitegate,  wheelewright, 
had  of  late  a  disease  fell  into  one  hand,  which  brake  and 
issued  at  fifteene  holes,  and  is  with  this  water  made  fish 
whole,  witnessed  by  the  sight  and  knowledge  of  the  Vicar 
of  Ouer,  a  very  honest  gentleman. 

One  Master  William  Johnes,  a  gentleman  of  worth  and 
good  reputation,  dwelling  neere  Wrixham,  in  Denbighshire, 
came  very  sicke  and  lame  to  this  well,  where  recouring 
health  and  soundnes,  he  left  testimonie  there  vnder  his 
hand-writing  of  the  great  benefit  he  receiued  to  this  effect, 
viz.  That  where  he  was  exceeding  lame  of  his  knees  and 
feete,  and  grieuously  pained  in  his  head,  necke,  shoulders, 
and  sides,  that  from  Easter-weeke  till  the  26  of  June,  he 
was  not  able  to  go  without  the  helpe  both  of  the  crouch, 
and  one  to  hold  him  by  the  other  arme,  vsing  this  water  at 
his  house  one  fortnight,  he  found  himselfe  able  to  go  onely 
with  the  helpe  of  a  little  sticke  in  one  hand,  and  to  get  vpon 
his  horse  without  helpe,  and  in  token  of  the  benefit  he 
receiued  there,  he  hath  left  his  crouch  in  the  hollin  there 
behind,  this  second  of  August,  1600. 

The  same  crouch  with  diuers  others  being  there  indeed 
reserued  as  oft  as  anie  haue  cause  to  leaue  them. 

One  Peter  Nightgale  was  by  this  water  likewise  cured  of 
a  rupture  in  his  bodie. 

One  Joane  Bromhall,  of  the  Middlewich,  lame  of  one  arme 
and  one  hand,  as  is  known  and  affirmed  by  men  of  good 


99 

worship,  by  this  water  hath  gotten  helpe,  and  hath  perfect 
vse  of  her  arme  and  hand  againe. 

John  Olton,  of  Wettenhall,  the  younger,  an  honest  credible 
man,  hauing  a  rupture  many  yeeres,  and  not  able  to  go 
without  the  helpe  of  a  Steele  girdle  which  he  wore  conti- 
nually, hath  heereby  gotten  remedie,  and  goeth  now  lustily 
without  his  girdle. 

I  may  not  omit  among  these  some  that  haue  beene  eased 
of  the  gout  and  such  like  aches.  As  one  George  Johnson, 
of  Northwich,  long  time  diseased  in  that  sort,  so  that  he 
was  not  able  to  goe,  is  by  this  water  holpen  and  well 
amended. 

Christopher  Bennet,  of  Wiruin,  much  eased  and  holpen  of 
a  gout,  and  sorenesse  besides,  called  a  wildfire,  in  .one  of  his 
legges. 

One  Master  James  Hocknell,  sonne  to  John  Hocknell, 
Esquire,  being  not  able  to  goe,  but  was  brought  to  the  well 
on  horsebacke  three  or  foure  times,  and  became  perfectly 
amended. 

One  Elizabeth  Bradshaw,  of  Northwich,  had  sore  legges 
twentie  two  yeeres,  and  hath  here  by  this  water  gotten 
helpe. 

The  straungest  cure  to  my  iudgement  that  proceedes 
from  this  water,  among  all  the  rest,  is  the  helpe  that  it  giues 
to  some  of  the  hardnesse  of  hearing,  whereof  there  are  a 
few  testimonies  giuen  by  many;  one  that  is  knowen  to  be 
benifited  therein  is  Randol  Wield,  a  young  youth  of 
Vtkinton. 

This  I  know  vpon  my  owne  knowledge  that  a  gentleman 


100 

here  in  the  countrey,.  one  Master  D.  C.  being  so  deafe  that 
he  cannot  heare  the  report  of  a  gunne  discharged  verie  neere 
him,  hauing  some  of  this  water  infused  into  his  eares,  it 
presently  drew  forth  much  corruption  beyond  all  expectation; 
what  further  benefit  will  insue  towards  the  amendement 
of  this  deafnes  restes  in  God's  hands,  but  there  is  good 
hope, 

I  haue  purposely  spared  to  remember  a  worshipfull 
knight  of  Lancashire,  who  hath  oft  visited  to  his  owne  great 
ease  and  comfort  this  well,  and  as  well  himselfe  as  other 
gentlemen  of  good  account,  and  some  learned  of  his  com- 
panie  haue  giuen  very  great  approbation  to  the  truth  of  the 
welle's  efficacy. 

It  hath-  had  no  fewe  reports  of  doing  good  to  some  such 
as  haue  beene  there  to  seeke  for  remedie  against  falling 
sicknesse,  appoplexies,  epilepsies,  letargies,  giddinesses,  and 
other  straunge  symptomes:  but  eyther  I  suppose  these 
proofes  are  sufficient,  or  infinite  cannot  serue. 

I  hold  it  therefore  a  needlesse  and  unprofitable  labour 
to  trauell  further  in  these  recitals  of  cures :  neither  doe  I 
labour  hereby  to  spread  an  opinion  bejond  trueth  of  the 
vertue  of  this  well,  which  to  do  were  no  way  to  me  worth 
my  labour. 

That  I  should  endeauour  to  deceiue  and  beguile  men's 
eares  with  a  straunge  report,  would  more  displease  me  to 
thinke  myselfe  so  guide  in  mine  owne  folly,  then  pleasure  me 
to  thinke  there  were  a  pleasure  in  illusions,  to  labour  to 
draw  men  the  faster  to  frequent  the  place  and  come  to  see 
the  well,  I  protest  before  God  I  know  not  how  that  may 


»      >   ,    »     •       »      • 
»         »         »     •  «        • 


»  •  »   .■         •»- 


101 

any  way  benefit  me  one  farthing,  only  my  desire  is  to  satisfy 
my  friends  and  others  of  the  truth  of  that,  whereof  now 
there  grow  many  doubts  and  disputations  among  men. 

They  which  dwell  farre  remote  rest  doubtfull,  whether  the 
large  and  ample  fame  thereof  spread,  deserue  credit  or  not. 
Some  that  dwell  neere  the  place  argue  and  debate  whether 
or  how  it  is  possible  such  straunge  and  admirable  effects 
should  be  produced  from  a  cause  so  simple,  poore,  easie,  and 
common  as  the  water  of  a  little  spring. 

Of  the  first  sort  those  that  be  generous,  gentle,  and  well 
disposed,  I  suppose  these  confirmations  will  worke  very  farre 
for  their  satisfaction ;  because  I  know  not  how  any  thing 
may  be  proued,  if  it  be  not  a  good  proofe  which  is  drawne 
from  the  approbation  of  worshipfull,  wise,  learned,  rich, 
poore,  and  altogether,  and  that  not  of  one,  but  of  many 
shires :  and  I  will  neuer  beleeve  prouerbe  more  whilest  I 
live,  if  the  prouerbe  be  not  in  this  cause  somewhat  auaile- 
able  which  saith.  It  must  needs  be  true  which  every  man 
saith. 

Endlesse  were  the  labour  a  man  might  haue  that  would 
go  about  to  answere  the  obiections  which  the  curiositie  of 
some  braines  will  still  brue,  and  fling  in  his  face  that  shall 
commend  any  truth  whatsoeuer,  neither  will  I  enlarge  this 
discourse  with  so  tedious  a  purpose  as  to  conuince  that 
by  way  of  argument,  which  no  equall  mind  will  much 
doubt  of. 

The  scepticke  inquirers  which  professe  doubtfulnes  in  all 
things  though  neuer  so  manifest,  and  aske  why  fire  is  fire, 
or  why  heat  is  heat,  why  white  is  not  called  blacke,  and 


J*  •'  *  » 


102 

why  blacke  is  not  called  blew :  what  answere  deserue  their 
friuolous  demaunds,  but  silence  the  reward  of  foolish 
questions  ? 

They  that  aske  why  the  water  of  that  well  should  be  so 
holsome  aboue  an  other  water,  eyther  on  this  side  or  beyond 
the  same  place,  eyther  one  one  this  side  the  hill,  or  one  the 
other,  are  they  not  like  to  those  which  contened  the  prophet's 
prescription  touching  Naaman,  and  asked  if  Abanah  and 
Pharpar,  riuers  of  Damascus,  where  not  as  fine  waters  as 
that  of  Jordan  ? 

Why  was  not  this  precious  water  (say  some)  found  out 
before  this  time?  or  how  comes  it  to  passe,  that  in  an 
element  so  bare,  void  of  mixture,  and  so  meerely  nothing 
almost  differing  from  other  water,  there  should  be  operation 
so  diuers  as  to  be  medicinable  against  such  diuersitie  of 
diseases,  wherof  no  doubt  the  causes  proceed  some  contrary 
one  to  another  ?  Questions  sottish  and  contemptible.  Have 
not  all  notable  benefits  had  their  seuerall  beginnings  ?  and 
cannot  men  tell  you  of  the  inuention  and  first  finding  of 
tenne  thousand  publike  admirations,  whereof  some  haue 
lien  hid  and  vnreuealed  euen  till  our  dales  ?  and  is  it  any 
new  thing  that  waters  should  effect  so  strange,  and  so  diuers 
operations  ? 

What  meane  scholler  hath  not  read  of  the  well  in 
Gnarsborrough  forrest,  which  couereth  leaues,  flesh,  and 
such  like  into  hard  stone?— of  the  well  in  Gloucestershire, 
which  turneth  oke  rootes  as  they  grow  into  hard  stone  ? — of 
an  other  neere  Stratford,  conuerting  stickes  and  the  like 
into  the  like  hardnes  of  stone  ? 


103 

Are  not  these  straunge  operations  1  and  can  a  man 
presently  giue  a  reason  hereof?  Knowes  any  man  the 
reason  why  that  lake  in  Snowdon,  which  carrieth  the 
mooueable  iland,  should  bring  forth  eeles,  perches,  and  trouts 
with  onely  one  eye  a  peece  in  their  heads,  which  no  other 
water  beside  doth  1  or  why  that  well  in  Wales,  six  mile 
from  the  sea,  or  another  in  Darbishire,  40  miles  distant 
from  the  sea,  should  rise  and  fall  iust  with  the  ebbing  and 
flowing  of  the  sea] 

We  are  to  wonder  at,  not  examine  all  the  secret  workings 
of  nature,  and  giuing  praise  to  the  great  guider  of  nature, 
and  ouer-ruler  of  naturall  causes,  to  receiue  the  good 
benefits  we  find  with  thankfuU  humilitie. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  some  learned  and  experienced 
man  of  ability  and  iudgement  (rather  a  skilfull  phisition 
then  any)  would  take  paines,  iudicially  to  approue  and 
publish  to  the  world  the  vertues  and  vse  of  this  good  water, 
as  hath  heretofore  been  done  by  our  best  bathes  in  other 
parts  of  the  realme.  Perhaps  some  famous  Doctor  Turner, 
or  learned  Master  Jones  could  well  satisfie  the  curiosity  of 
the  narrowest  inquirers  why  this  should  be,  and  that  should 
be ;  they  could  iudge  of  the  nature  of  the  water,  of  the 
colour,  of  the  vaines  of  the  earth,  of  the  situation,  of  the 
climate,  of  all  the  collaterall  causes  which  make  it  bene- 
ficiall. 

If  our  well  worke  the  like  or  as  strange  effects  as  Bath, 
Buxtons,  Saint  Vincent's,  or  Hallywell,  what  advantage  haue 
they  of  it,  sauing  that  good  fortune  hath  found  them  out 
such  men  (as  those  before  named)  to  publish  their  vertues. 


104 

The  first  of  which  named  welles  (I  meane  the  Bath)  I 
must  needs  with  great  reuerence  glue  due  admiration  vnto, 
in  respect  of  the  great  fame  and  antiquitie,  it  is  knowne  to 
be  of.  And  because  it  exceeds  all  the  rest  as  in  heat,  so  in 
the  sensiblenes  or  manifest  appearance  of  phisicall  or 
medicinable  curing,  I  hold  it  great  reason  it  should  retaine 
the  preheminence  ouer  all  the  rest. 

And  where  our  wel  wanting  that  sensible  heat  may 
perhaps  in  that  respect  be  disallowed  the  name  of  a  medi- 
cinable water :  I  answer  nothing  but  that  which  Master 
Jones  writeth  of  Buxtons  Well,  that  being  not  so  hot  as  the 
water  of  Bathe,  it  healeth  more  temperately  and  effectually. 

Thus  farre  (bro.  B.)  as  my  haste  and  slender  abilitie 
would  permit,  I  haue  laboured  to  impart  vnto  you  the  newes 
of  the  New  found  Well.  If  you  please,  you  may  commit  it 
further  view;  if  it  be  not  well  reported,  or  the  newes  not 
well  accepted,  or  my  meaning  not  well  construed,  I  can  say 
no  more  than  this,  I  would  all  were  well. 


Sini&* 


London  :  Printed  by  C.  and  J.  Adlard,  Bartliolomew  Close. 


^oh 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DTTEO^  THE  rASTDATl 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL     FIN^op    ,„ 

W/LL  BE  ASSESSED  Fof  pf^,';  ^^  ^ENTS 
THIS    BOOK   ON    THE   DATE   o  ,P  ^°    "^"""^ 

WILL  INCREASE  TO  So  Jlro  '"''^  PENALTY 
°AY  AND  TO  «.00  ON  JhVo''"^''""''™ 
OVERDUE.  ^     ^"^    SEVENTH     DAY 


MAR   30  1933 


DEC   241937 


MAY  21 1992 


APR  1  0  mi 

23ki:54BG 

mi2 


Af 


JUN28'" 

LOAN  DEPTJ 
CmCULATlON  OJEPT, 


LD  21-50m-l,'ss 


''■  ''i^o€^  /i^^/<M^ 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


B0D07flDS3a 


.  '  T«. 


r>     *^ 


■  * 


.?*?•.  ♦»>    * 


1  :f     .:? 


':■-  i 


>'A  ■;(  'V  :-v. /v;--/ 


•/  :j! 


Ik- 


v\ 


"I    ; 

J  J  i. 


/  ■  ■ :  -\ 


"WW